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January 16.
I feel about forty years old.
Yet I know my feeling is not the feeling of forty years. These are the feelings of miserable, wretched youth.
Every day the atmosphere of a house becomes unbearable, so every day I go out to the sand and barrenness. It is not cold, neither is it mild. It is gloomy.
I sit for two hours on the ground by the side of a pitiably small narrow stream of water. It is not even a natural stream. I dare say it comes from some mine among the hills. But it is well enough that the stream is not natural—when you consider the sand and barrenness. It is singularly appropriate.
And I am singularly appropriate to all of them. It is good, after all, to be appropriate to something—to be in
