Out in the muggy night, whistling a quiet meandering tune to myself, made Peretz a bit nervous, spooky, that's me.

Let people have their cozy little imaginary hells if it helps them cope with the big real one, had all the heart beaten out of me, can stand it just fine, eyes wide open. Things want fixing.

Echoes down the corridors.

Talking about the relations between word & image out behind work by the dumpsters earlier, strange territory, hard to know where to start. Old preoccupations, fertile areas, open field. A desolation, distant mutant birds.

People are still scared of pictures, magic, secret urges, the things people are afraid to say. But it's the things people say, to themselves mostly, that cause most of the trouble, I find. Lack of imagination.

Dreadful.