Wrong minded in this, habitually, which is of course why so much of me is always so weary: it is incapable of going far enough--it is not even possible for it to go far enough--to the end--since it sees itself, myself, as the means to the end, where the means is the end, and the limits of my source are the limits of myself, though the demands of my end (which is not my end but my impossible goal, and which I have confused, one for the other, endlessly again) are endless.
In the dream, a blue river. That dream where I believe I am following the ribboned limestone to the secret place I left behind. After all, what does it mean to say I am not God?
Broke the other plum-colored coffee mug from Colorado Springs, swept it into the corner below the coat hooks, and left it and the broom there to look at each other. The same with the suitcase. The same with the sleeping bag and blanket. The pillows on the floor. The clothes I shed last night before bed.
Em gave me lilies, iris, red and yellow daisies, a coffee press and coffee, a frame of a delicate thing that wants framing. A bag of velvety black and white polka-dots. The lilies are pink: morning clouds.
Romulus the shorn lamb paces in the hall, crying.