November 19th, 1978
I do not love lightly or casually. Even my attention to daily details requires a certain vivid enthusiasm. So now I sit on a bright fall Sunday morning feeling for the first time strong enough to try and assemble all the confused loose ends of a broken love affair. Events and emotions from the past two months flip through my memory like the pitiful fluttering of a bird with a broken wing. I am compelled to cup the broken thing in my hand and try to mend the damaged parts. I know that is not possible.