Spinning

I stopped writing a poem a day

on working days

stopped working

started working

stopped sleeping

looking at screens before bed

in bed

reading articles on the internet tells me this is bad for sleep

*

gained entrance to an archive

started working

(“all large work seems fatally full of weakness & vulgarity (I mean my own)”)

started reading

skimming skipping screening

stopped

“Here is Ariadne in a nice little frock—Why have’nt I always written in English to you? This is me—and almost for the first time.”

This is her.

These are love letters!

A love telegram!

“Toute mon ame avec vous” Stop

the differences between aimer and lover

“we must be united a great deal closer & better than now”

Is it requited?

I had to leave Paris.

(Back in Cambridge. The spin cycle is on. “I am able to enjoy only writing down stray thoughts in my note book. […] I can sew them together taut bien que mal. But that is not real form.”)