In Times When Nothing Stood

Seriously, I Think It Is A Grave Fault In Life That So Much Time Is Wasted In Social Matters, Because It Not Only Takes Up Time When You Might Be Doing Individual Private Things, But It Prevents You Storing Up The Psychic Energy That Can Then Be Released To Create Art Or Whatever It Is. It's Terrible The Way We Scotch Silence & Solitude At Every Turn, Quite Suicidal. I Can't See How To Avoid It, Without Being Very Rich Or Very Unpopular, & It Does Worry Me, For Time Is Slipping By , And Nothing Is Done. It Isn't As If Anything Was Gained By This Social Frivolity, It Isn't: It's Just A Waste.

I Work All Day, And Get Half-drunk At Night.

To Start At A New Place Is Always To Feel Incompetent & Unwanted.

Slowly Light Strengthens, And The Room Takes Shape. It Stands Plain As A Wardrobe, What We Know, Have Always Known, Know That We Can't Escape, Yet Can't Accept. One Side Will Have To Go. Meanwhile Telephones Crouch, Getting Ready To Ring In Locked-up Offices, And All The Uncaring Intricate Rented World Begins To Rouse. The Sky Is White As Clay, With No Sun. Work Has To Be Done. Postmen Like Doctors Go From House To House.

All The Unhurried Day / Your Mind Lay Open Like A Drawer Of Knives.