The animal who is perfect in its things owns nothing that it does not approach nose first. It has names for imaginary dwellings and seems to forget where it lives. In its mind it carries a tree with bark white as the Himalayas. The animal who is perfect in its things puts itself where it happens to be.

 

The animal who is perfect is the animal who is perfect who is ongoing who is a tending animal not often mindful of itself, but then it is.

 

 

I have been talking to the wrong people they make me guilty about everything! what can I do! Let me say that I have enjoyed being a tourist and meeting all those people with alternative lives you find quite a lot of them up in Yorkshire remember the girl in Hebden Bridge who was dressed like a stage hand in black and laughed like a student but was a waitress and served us homemade pumpkin cake in that old cafe which was not properly converted really the bathroom was just like a bathroom in an old-fashioned house rather nice for a change but what a waste of space don't you think they could have put in at least five more tables by knocking some walls through but it was sweet to put out wooden blocks on the window sill for customers to play with I never could build things so I built a church that is easy two arms and something sticking up actually that girl was rather forward bringing the cake she toppled the church on purpose and I tried to build something else but couldn't think what there are so many pagans these days people are friendlier up North and the cake was good.

 

Yes!

 

I still feel so guilty about everything! what can I do! Let me say that if I write transcriptions of life as it happens to me this is not out of nervousness I am sure I'm authentic I am not bearing witness to the fact that I feel real how to feel real forget about the cameras it's perfectly natural to pick up the phone stay in touch darling is it fair to write anything an intelligent twelve year old could not understand I'm sure I know many of those and twelve was the age when an ancient boy could go out in ships being a Viking yes twelve is the yardstick there is this man whose lyrics I admire he tells me I've never met him of course about the fall of leaves and the train or the plane and the look of the Channel and who was buried somewhere oh this is beautiful and his grandmother this is deep this is true and in translation this is lucid exact without any grand vague philosophical baggage dammit I'm a person I will make a claim I like to read read books on the London Underground it's very spi-spiritual if you don't mind my using that word.