(It seems that I have nothing to say these days. I would rather read the newspaper. Perhaps it has to do with the fact that I have not seen a bird in awhile . . . except for gulls, one crushed, some flying, but outside of folklore, gulls are not very interesting . . . I read a little, only I rarely remember what I've read. Louise Brooks is dying, I think, finally; she would say to prospective visitors, "And bring a shotgun." But there is the next day to consider, with all its bills and its rain and its chill, seeping through even the nice blue leather of gloves . . . There is the particular horror of this week . . . There are other things, dreams of blood clots in a toilet bowl, dreams of teeth shattering in my mouth. I must be stuck between ellipses.)

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