Notebook Ten


Your dissatisfaction is my sanctuary.

The familiarity of sadness is a strange cold comfort.
I crave it.
In its absence I am hollow and shallowly happy.
But in my words do I cry out to my muse:
Muse! Muse! sad and broken though you are, yet my soul depends on you!
If you leave me so you do me wrong!

But happiness seeps down through my being—
I tried to cry and found my eyes treacherously dry.
Sometimes for the greater good, child, sacrifices must be made.
But I do not make sacrifices.
I am one.
I who walk alone and think alone and am alone.
I am not alone.
I become an extrovert.
I am ruined by happiness, oh Irony! Irony!
My only love sprung from my only hate.

All the way to the Garden State
Out of Cape Cod tonight.


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