A queer autumn, this. One of the most exquisite-with rarest coloring, blue haze and atmosphere, days fresh and yet warm. And it leaves me cold. Solitude, I suppose. For whenever my child is here, things bloom again.
Feeling comes alive.
A sort of deadness to what I so much love. A most external time, too, one seems to be having. A farm is like a very large and extended baby. It takes a great deal of time and very little mentality. And then being all alone comes in, too.