And today, thinking about what my life has been, I feel like some sort of animal that’s being carried in a basket under a curved arm between two suburban train stations. The image is stupid, but the life it defines is even more stupid. These baskets usually have two lids, like half ovals, that lift up at one end or the other should the animal squirm. But the arm of the one carrying it, resting a bit on the hinges in the middle, won’t allow such a weak thing to do more than slightly and uselessly raise the lids, like tired wings of a butterfly.

I forgot that I was talking about me in the description of the basket. I clearly see it, along with the fat, sunburned arm of the maid carrying it. I can’t see any more of the maid than her arm and its down. I can’t get comfortable unless – All of a sudden a breezy coolness [passes through] those white rods and strips which baskets are made of and inside of which I squirm, an animal aware that it’s going from one station to another. I’m resting on what seems to be a long seat, and I hear people talking outside my basket. All is calm and so I sleep, until I’m lifted up again at the station.