The earth is indifferent. The sky is mysterious. The sea is a lasting menace. And the plants and the migrating birds. The stone is as silent as death which has dominion over all. Cruelty is in each of us. Each of us is a bit of a murderer, if not of others, of himself. Love is beyond me still, perhaps it has always been. Pain is a fact. But a thing or two we can do, and since we can, we must. As for the rest, who knows? Let’s wait and see. Instead of continuing this entry, I think I’ll play my flute tonight.

1970          
1976–1981