The night holds it, the air holds it, the moon, stars & wind hold it, but where am I to find my share of it? I guess I never shall find it except in my writing. There can be no fulfillment of this hunger without more ill than good and so I want none. Already the pangs are lessening & I wonder now what stirred me so earlier. Nighttime is a gentle, lonely time and breeds such (I want always to be at peace with Bob.) wondering, wandering thoughts.
Tomorrow is tomorrow.
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