5 April 1920 – 11 April 1920

Cold and windy. Out of the window the writh- ing palms — the dust — the woman with a black veil. I feel I must live alone, alone, alone — with artists only to touch the door. Every artist cuts off his ear and nails it on the outside of the door for the others to shout into.

1 never can remember what happens. It is so without outline. " Yesterday " falls into the general shade. But all the time one looks back and there are wonders. There is always Miss H. stretching out her hands to the great defiant mosquito — crying with a kind of groan — " Oh, the darlings! " That remains for ever. And then one must never forget the dog which gets all the love of children. " Going nice ta-tas, my ducksie pet! "