10/4/51

Autumns in the heart, and old tragedy, tears, the echo of pain and the hollow echo of a cry aloud in the midst of weeping. I stared at her until I no longer knew her or her name, knew only her form and her bones and the shadows at the sockets of her eyes, and then I began to draw, while the radio played a Chopin étude. Oh how beautifully my pen behaved! The autumn came swiftly, a rising shadow of night, telling me, one day you will no longer be with her, whom you love now, but your hand in drawing, your talent and your desire, your courage, your selflessness, your happiness when you draw, these will always be with you, be you seventy and toothless, poor and alone, but she? She under the light now—I can hear her breathing—she will be gone, and worse, almost forgotten. The tragic chorus chanted in my heart, and I followed the distant play closely, tears coming to my eyes.