My own agonies, which I once thought comic, have become more terrible with the passing of time.

Was it my time for writing poems about McCarthy or my time for sending out fresh salmon or the time of playing happy telephone or my time for dictating memoranda about what’s wrong with America?… or my time for crying.

In spite of all the paraphernalia for keeping things together, how haphazard life is, and the judgments of time.