May 8, 1976

Every time I write the date I speak your name. (There is no ambiguity about which year it is. The words before are symbols for the very specific fact that this year is separate, specific. When I forgot how to write I could read almost any sign before or after the sign (Does this shuttling avoid emotions that are subsequent to an absence of the corresponding words- the disclosure of a secret message behind the words that contains everything? I hold back the response, and loaded with language I can change the pitch. Where do I get the colors from, then, the form of the things described. Does everything have to remain previous to the disclosure, restraining myself before I write the symbol that corresponds to its object? Reverie and confusion. When the world seems to be conspiring for me I feel it is conspiring against me. Also, I see in this a desire for freedom. Love believes very strongly in its opposite. The thing in us most strongly bound wants to get bound in order to get even more strongly bound in order to get the strength to break free. The relativity of my feelings in relation to yours makes this whole game seem ridiculous. After all that struggle I only found out that the feelings existed only for themselves. Only for themselves! And the ambiguity never changes. It is our only real surprise.