The sadness spreads like twilight, like night encompassing the hum of the city, the feeble pretense of electricity in replicating the sun, the tenuous warmth of the wires. They can be cut. Ink is poured into the corners, down alleys, in gardens where the flowers close, red petals clenched. I am biting my lips to keep from crying. My eyes try to adjust; I do, sitting in a window or by the water. These surfaces--the aqueous curve of the marbles as they roll--steal light from the sky, the memory of morning, the promise, the return of something that the hungry call hope...
"This journal is not a mere literary diversion. The further I progress, reducing to order what my past life suggests, and the more I persist in the rigor of composition--of the chapters, of the sentences, of the book itself--the more do I feel myself hardening in my will to utilize, for virtuous ends, my former hardships. I feel their power." --Jean Genet
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