I Write This Sitting In

The Key To All Knowledge Comes In Words Of Just One Syllable, Apparently.... There's Only The Last Page Left To Write On. I'll Fill It With Words Of Just One Syllable. I Love. I Have Loved. I Will Love.

He Stood Staring Into The Wood For A Minute, Then Said: "what Is It About The English Countryside — Why Is The Beauty So Much More Than Visual? Why Does It Touch One So?" He Sounded Faintly Sad. Perhaps He Finds Beauty Saddening — I Do Myself Sometimes. Once When I Was Quite Little I Asked Father Why This Was And He Explained That It Was Due To Our Knowledge Of Beauty's Evanescence, Which Reminds Us That We Ourselves Shall Die. Then He Said I Was Probably Too Young To Understand Him; But I Understood Perfectly.

I Know All About The Facts Of Life, And I Don't Think Much Of Them.

Contemplation Seems To Be About The Only Luxury That Costs Nothing.

I Should Rather Like To Tear These Last Pages Out Of The Book. Shall I? No-a Journal Ought Not To Cheat.