The birdsong I think it was a Robin. Mild weather. Rain is colour on the road. Roads are often less than they are because they all go somewhere but I have more interest in roads now. Since a long time ago I was in Yugoslavia on a large road and it went so well with two lanes going the way I was going and two lanes going back to where I had been and then suddenly before it arrived anywhere it stopped and it was one lane of not made of anything except holes going in both directiuons and that was how it was for twenty miles and then it met a road starting nowhere which was going into a village. And so now I find roads more interesting especially not in Britain because now I have less belief that they all do go somewhere at all however big. Anyway it is rain on roads that is most interesting because it is in different colours each time and there is sky and clouds on the road in colours.
I like to write as I work through an idea, not work through an idea and then write because by then it would be over and not interesting because ike the roads it all does go somewhere and so I like especially to think Yugoslavian roads otherwise writing it would not be interesting. Surely everybody who writes anything at all has most in front of them the tips of some fingers and a pen into and yet it is never seen because it is always there for almost everybody and now there are computers there is less of it and people can notice them missing. I like most to write it and work it. I like it to be written happening. Words get made into sentances and sentances get made into paragraphs. That is the way it happens and it is interesting. People have a habit of turning to the ground and not really having any reason for it left behind but I suppose the reasons are in the people and the people have the habit of turning to the ground. If the detective novel is the only form of literature invented in the twentieth century what is to become of the technical manual which is also invented then. But now the technical manual and the detective novel are really all the same slow accumulation of facts so perhaps it is true after all.
The language changes so fast I don't suppose you meant that Gertrude to be so now. I doubt if it will either.
What purpose is there to being you if you will always grow into your own image of you or if you will always shrink into your own image of you. That is the difference between one person and another and it isn't very much. I remember a librarian and it was a very great library and I remember a librarian who was trying to grow greater than the library and that is very difficult and that bothered me very much then and it did still until recently but not so much now. Now it is possible to grow greater than the library which does not bother me or it is possible to grow the library smaller which does still bother me. But why not it is it. Three empty boxes.
Everything was very stopped and so I lit a white candle and everything started again. I suppose the candle was for what was stopped and it was lit and all started again. In the window is a tissue paper blind with a yellow sun and it was drifting down and now it has held up again because it has all started again. The white candle is orange and the yellow sun is started. There is music and colour in the air which is suspended by itself.
I am in that city. That city is in me. I am not in that city. That city is not in me. Everything is everything. That's just how it is. I am not sure how it came to be, perhaps it always was that nothing is most interesting but it certainly is. Certainly it is nothing most interesting. Perhaps nothing is not everything and that is easier than everything is everything and so it is certainly nothing that is most interesting.