My thoughts on this were a bolus, to use a word I owe to Denoon and that seems to have become indispensable to me.

One attractive thing about me is that I’m never bored, because during any caesura my personal automatic pastime of questioning my own motives is there for me.

Kang has douceur.

My two donkeys were already loaded to the point of being in danger of tipping over. This is pure cavil.

Because of what was to come, this was salutary. I used it as a talisman in the desert more than once.

He would have noetic dreams, and when they were over he would be left in possession of some adage or percept that tells you something occult or fundamental about the world.

Finally one stanza out of Elizabeth Bishop got hold of me and kept inserting itself between pieces of other poems, truculently.

April nights in the Kalahari are cold, but we were hot. I got up three times to renew my paean to heat, light, and destruction. I burned everything. Even as day fell I threw more into the display.

You approached Tsau down a corridor of darling crepitation. I asked myself what the idea could possibly be.

But I thought Wouldn’t I be calmer, and wouldn’t I have less prefabricated imagery inundating me, and wouldn’t I have somewhat less constant hubbub going on behind the arrases lining my mind