is happiness. There is not the joy
in the gut, the glow. One isnít radiant.
Chekhov called The Cherry Orchard
a comedy. That is close. That is it.
Dead things stay dead (here). Loveliness
is spoiled (here). Sadness permeates.
To be permeated is close to happiness.
To be breathing; in rooms; in circles
of chairs; in the unfolding of a day.
To befriend circles. To be in a clean
bed, single or double, alone or not,
oneís psychoses accepted. To be out
of oneself long enough to hear birds
among themselves. Half your life
is broken off, or all of it, and
here you still are. One day, a feeling
which isnít misery. It doesnít feel like
happiness. But it is happiness. Words
are the wrong clothes for such things.