I Wonder Whether If I

Though I Have No Productive Worth, I Have A Certain Value As An Indestructible Quantity.

I Think That If I Get Into The Habit Of Writing A Bit About What Happens, Or Rather Doesn't Happen, I May Lose A Little Of The Sense Of Isolation And Desolation Which Abides With Me. My Circumstances Allowing Of Nothing But The Ejaculation Of One-syllabled Reflections, A Written Monologue By That Most Interesting Being, Myself, May Have Its Yet To Be Discovered Consolations.

How Heroic To Be Able To Suppress One's Vanity To The Extent Of Confessing That The Game Is Too Hard.

It Is An Immense Loss To Have All Robust And Sustaining Expletives Refined Away From One! At. Moments Of Trial Refinement Is A Feeble Reed To Lean Upon.

It Is So Comic To Hear Oneself Called Old, Even At Ninety I Suppose!