So, a word before I turn out the light.
Today I thought that one had nothing to complain of so long as one lived with this dual feeling: that someone one loves is well disposed toward one, and that at the same time one had boundless possibilities of doing away with oneself at any moment.
I reached heaven and it was syrupy. / It was oppressively sweet. / Croaking substances stuck to my knees. / Of all substances St. Michael was stickiest.
They all miss you so. Geo. Bernard Shaw’s been over here since you’ve been gone. We can go to Oak Bluffs too after the crowd goes or after they’re there. Darling, you’ll be the catch of the season.
I’m home again, to the extent that anybody’s really got a home anymore.
They advise me to rest. But why rest? To relax, to avoid solitude, etc., a lot of unattainable goals. I know of only one remedy: time! And besides, I’m bored thinking about myself.
The trains are badly crowded but I had a good seat both going & coming, & such comfortable downy seats & so clean that if I were a bum & could afford it I would spend my time travelling & just live on the train.
Well now listen, God’s little flutings, I heard that Hawaiian harp which passes for your nervous system go wingdinging out into the great North night as I went flying south.
A story, even if possible stranger, was being widely circulated in the nation’s capitol tonight with regard to the identity of the presumed plotter. He is said to be Dr. Enzo Pound, a well known ornithologist, & co-author with Kung Fu Tse of “The Unwobbling Pigeon”.
My darling, you do whatever you think, and I’ll be there come hell, high water, or the complete force of Pinkerton’s detectives.