Robinson Sends a Letter to SomeoneKathleen Rooney
Cento I Much to say: don't know how to begin. Sunday. Berlioz (uneven) on the radio, with Mr. Enesco or whatever conducting. The highschool boy across the hall whistles with quasi-cheer (close the transom, we can't hear the goddamn Berlioz); the psychopathic dog downstairs whimpers, barks, is mildly scolded; the gas splutters; dark sky; snow coming they say. A note to myself is stuck in the mirror: "Remember to get book at lib." Too many cigarettes. The old despair. The soot peacefully floating in the cold afternoon. I'm not doing what I want to do; is anyone? How to begin?
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