It seems to me I am forced to choose between practicing silence and muttering agreeable talk about the weather. My sincere voice has become outlandish and would be deemed tactless or inauthentic; it sounds like: "How long, oh Lord...?"
But I have not known despair. I listen to the talking and read the histories and know that all of it comes from a kind of good intention. I can no longer take sports seriously--and politics seem even more a phantom. I am drawn now to the phases of the moon, the wisdom of Solomon; I take a certain impure pleasure in noticing--noticing my body change, begin its long project of dismantling; noticing the way others eat, or walk, or fail to ask questions.
I am sitting beside a deep well--it seems bottomless. I have a handle on the bucket, its tether. I have been seated here for an age. Until recently, I spent whole days lowering the bucket deep, deep into the well, dragging it up, spilling it as widely as I could, haplessly throwing water from the bucket at anyone who came near. I hope now to be through with that effort. I resolve to wait here beside my deep well, happy to give water to those who thirst, if any should come by.
Oh, it's a short hard sweet day we are living! Are you all well, friends?