February 4.
ALWAYS I wonder, when I die will there be any one to remember me with love?
I know I am not lovable.
That I want it so much only makes me less lovable, it seems. But—who knows?—it may be there will be some one.
My anemone lady does not love me. How can she—since she does not understand me? But she allows me to love her—and that carries me a long way. There are many—oh, a great many—who will not allow you to love them if you would.
There is no one to love me now.
Always I wonder how it will be after some long years when I find myself about to die.
