I wish to fuss and fret, and gnash my teeth. I wish to do it and it is my right. It is a cold and dismal day, grey and unpleasant (though there are some very pleasant grey days), and I do not know what to say to anyone or anything, particularly to those I wish to speak to the most. I think that it is like thinking, there are so many thoughts, and so many things I want to say, that it is impossible to sort them-- some are more important, some are prettier, some are the best for a moment and that moment only and some are so rarefied and strange that it is possible that they will never meet air, never have the chance to meet air, that they are inappropriate all of the time.

But, well, I don't know you see, and that is all of the problem. But you also see that I have gnashed my teeth, and I'll tell you too that I felt better for a little while, for a moment.

<<agé chose>>

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