You Can Be Lonely Even

Outside, You Don't Hear A Single Bird, And A Deathly, Oppressive Silence Hangs Over The House And Clings To Me As If It Were Going To Drag Me Into The Deepest Regions Of The Underworld.... I Wander From Room To Room, Climb Up And Down The Stairs And Feel Like A Songbird Whose Wings Have Been Ripped Off And Who Keeps Hurling Itself Against The Bars Of Its Dark Cage.

When I Write I Can Shake Off All My Cares. My Sorrow Disappears, My Spirits Are Revived.

We Lit The Stove A Few Days Ago And The Entire Room Is Filled With Smoke. I Prefer Central Heating, And I'm Probably Not The Only One.

I Must Uphold My Ideals, For Perhaps The Time Will Come When I Shall Be Able To Carry Them Out.

One Gets On Better In Life If One Is Not Over Modest.