I hated this wrangling inside my mind.
It went on and on. I seemed to have failed in my attempts
to resolve or to erase it.
This infuriated me all the more.
I told myself, to make it less dispicable, that I was composing entries
for my journal, that I would transfer these heated words, these thoughts,
fragments, scraps of sound, as soon as I was able to find a few minutes
and my pencil and my tattered black notebook where I wrote these things.
It was on the seat beside me.