I have felt more passion with less comfort elsewhere: the mysterious deep half-blind preferences of human beings for each other, the quick probing tentacles that seek in the dark, why one inexplicably and yet certainly loves A and is indifferent to B.
Getting through time was rather the problem. The cry of 'Help me!' — but there was no one there.
Perhaps it was a case of time overflowing.
I know time doesn't heal. That's the silliest idea of all.
But oh — time has become such a torture, a slow torture. One tries to capture a piece of time that lies ahead and is full of light . . . but thinking about that just makes this awful black time even blacker.
There is a deep foundation of my being which knows not of time and change and is still and ever with Hartley, in that good place where we once were.
One knows what being in love is like and it is a very terrible thing.
Perhaps one could not live with such knowledge. One might die for it, or of it.
