Men and bits of paper, whirled by the cold wind

"I might have, but it doesn't seem as if"
(Frost, you know.)

The boy stopped over last night to find his watch which somehow was
underneath the blue couch. I do not even know how I knew it was there,
but it was the first place I looked. I do wonder if that is the only
reason he came over. Probably yes.

This English course I am working on should have been done four months
ago. I don't even know if I can still pass. My motivation has somehow
escaped me and I have accepted imminent failure. Despite this I keep
putting words on paper and underlining pretty stanzas. Why must I
analyze literature to the point of destruction, so it no longer means
anything more than sounds made by silly syllables in stupid sentences?

"Desire itself is movement
Not in itself desirable;
Love is itself unmoving,
Only the cause and end of movement,
Timeless, and undesiring
Except in the aspect of time
Caught in the form of limitation
Between un-being and being"
(Eliot, of course.)

I don't know really. But that one makes sense and I don't want to tear
it apart and force meaning upon it that was never meant to be had. I
could never be a writer, never mind my lack of talent and focus. I
wouldn't be able to stand cute little college students dissecting my
words, diction, and whatever and then pretending like those feelings
belong to them when really they are mine, all mine. I would hate that
just like Flannery O'Connor hates it. Have you ever read her letters?
Oh you should, they are almost better than her stories and they are so
self-righteous that I want to dig up that woman's grave and give her a
hug. She would hate that too.