[She found that there was still sufficient crawlspace left in his heart for her to burrow her way inside and make him love her, although it left her with no breathing room and she had to go headlong into the unseeing dark. But gradually she infiltrated him, against his will, like water trickling in between the bunched fingers of a clenched fist.]

That was fiction.
A passing train disturbs the surface tension of my screen.
I started my red cross rounds, somewhat belatedly. Too many streets and few people home. It was a beautiful afternoon for it, the fluid slow time-frozen sunlight, yellow everywhere, the air warm but the breeze cool, perfect for walking and peering down other people’s halls.

I finished Ulysses this morning, I’m trying to start Absalom with a little more gusto. Really I don’t want to be reading today, I want to be walking and talking rapidly to listening ears or perhaps a Dictaphone tripping along at my heels like my familiar, like a kitten, taking in everything I say even though I’m not really saying anything at all.

It should have rained, it did peckle down a little this morning, but the day had this fade-in, and now it’s fading out, beautiful evening. Last night in bed I was lying drifting off thinking happily, and then I thought Death comes, and I simply didn’t care, Oh well, I thought. In the wide open arms of sleep, you lay down your arms. Even though I always have bad dreams.

Time itself becomes sunlit, I’ve noticed that – saturated, filtered through with it, slanting and yellow, absorbing and absorbed. Now there is only a black silhouette horizon with a lilac white-gold dying sky behind.