In the wake of a beautiful September morning unburdened of humidity, all seems alive and flourishing, for last night I felt wrapped within my cold thoughts; warmth appeared to be unreachable, but for the moment that coldness has passed and I will try to avoid its bitterness as long as I can. You ask of my words and if I would hand them to a living soul inhabited by a ghost, and to that I will say this: my words of course are not words of my own, as I incessantly read I pile note card upon note card, written upon them all the words I do not know, to be defined, written out on more note cards- a thought, and much is owed to the authors which I have read, borrowed, have stolen from, but they are alive no longer and though their pages may carry on, their voices cannot, and my voice is alive and well and in good form, and weather I be for or against all their small and large thoughts, and though they may not be entirely my own, parts of them are and are fresh each morning as I change the water in a vase of forgotten roses. I too, when not help captive by my burdensome thoughts, write most eloquently, for in the absence of self something happens, and writing as T.S. says, ‘is a continual extinction of personality.’ We create for we are representatives of a point in time, and though much has and will be since the start of life remain the same, what we have done and have said, though heavily influenced, has moments of our own uniqueness, where influence shimmers in the background under the dim light of our thoughts.