The addle-patedness of some would be writer.

I have taken the few night medicines that I am given these days, and do some general reading until the words start taking on a three dimensional look to them. When they can’t make any more sense to myself, and to write is to never make sense. Then you must go to sleep. I certainly will.

I’m putting in a woman named Rose Pogonia. The name comes from a Robert Frost poem:

Rose Pogonias

A Saturated meadow,
Sun-shaped and jewel-small,
A circle scarcely wider
Than the trees around were tall;
Where winds were quite excluded,
And the air was stifling sweet
With the breath of many flowers,–
A temple of the heat.

There we bowed us in the burning,
As the sun’s right worship is,
To pick where none could miss them
A thousand orchises;
For though the grass was scattered,
Yet every second spear
Seemed tipped with wings of color,
That tinged the atmosphere.

We raised a simple prayer
Before we left the spot,
That in the general mowing
That place might be forgot;
Or if not all so favored,
Obtain such grace of hours,
That none should mow the grass there
While so confused with flowers.