There is a deep foundation of my being which knows not of time and change and is still and ever with Hartley, in that good place where we once were.

I know time doesn't heal. That's the silliest idea of all.

Getting through time was rather the problem. The cry of 'Help me!' — but there was no one there.

So we live; a spirit that broods and hovers over the continual death of time, the lost meaning, the unrecaptured moment, the unremembered face, until the final chop that ends all our moments and plunges that spirit back into the void from which it came.

But oh — time has become such a torture, a slow torture. One tries to capture a piece of time that lies ahead and is full of light . . . but thinking about that just makes this awful black time even blacker.

The past and the present are after all so close, so almost one, as if time were an artificial teasing out of a material which longs to join, to interpenetrate, and to become heavy and very small like some of those heavenly bodies scientists tell us of.

Perhaps it was a case of time overflowing.

The past and present are after all so close, almost one, as if time were an artificial teasing out of a material which longs to join, to interpenetrate, and to become heavy and very small like some of those heavenly bodies scientists tell us of.

We shall be better prepared for the future if we see how terrible, how doomed the present is.