A sort of depression engenders a compulsion to continue. It is difficult to communicate to the outside world from inside a lung. My plan is to write and rewrite (automatically) however long it takes. To throw some pages into the fire and rearrange what is left. The expression is sloppy and destroyed before it manifests. When the lampless hours end will I be nearer? Though my beard grows hoary and thick like the coat of mastodons, I will not