convoluted in every tuckaway everywhichaway tuckered hole till there’s no more the expressing of our latest thoughts let alone old—Mighty genius of the mind Cody whom I announce as the greatest writer the. world will ever know if he ever gets down to writing again like he did earlier—It’s so enormous we both sit here sighing in fact—“No the only writing I done,” he says, “a few letters to Willamine, in fact quite a few, she’s got em all wrapped in ribbons there, I figgered if I tried to write a book or sumptin or prose or sumptin they’d just take it away from me when I left so I wrote her "bout three letters a week for two years—and the trouble of course and as I say and you’ve heard a million times is the mind flows the mind rises and nobody can by any possible o—oh hell, I dont wanta talk about it”—Besides I can see from glancing at him that becoming a writer holds no interest for him because life is so holy for him there’s no need to do anything but live it, writing’s just an afterthought or a scratch anyway at the surface—But if he could! if he would! there I am riding in California miles away from home where my poor cat’s buried and my mother grieves and that’s what I'm thinking.
It always makes me proud to love the world somehow—Hate’s so easy compared—But here I go flattering myself helling headbent to the silliest hate I ever had.
