I’ve been getting up early to write. It’s the only time of the day I can count on for solitude and clear-mindedness. Most of these words were put down in the hours before dawn, and some of them are about those strange hours, and the rest are about this strange life.
January 10 — I wake up early, bang on the door of my heart to be let in. An old man comes. His eyes have seen the world. His smile is the sun rising over mountains. I tell him why I’ve come. Sit, he says. He leaves me then for a long time.
