May 16th.
So long as I have thoughts I can write a journal; but while my life is that of an animal, it doesn't seem very necessary. I have always felt myself an outcast—a poet has to be that; but I never felt it quite so much as at present. I wander around from door to door; and those who have homes and money and power—they simply order me out of the way.
May 18th.
I do not think I can stand this much longer. I never had such a time before finding anything. I think my state must be written in my face—men no longer have any use for me.
I fear my coat is seedy. And I know my collar is soiled; but the two I left at the laundry won't be done till to-morrow.
I have broken my last two-dollar bill. I watch in terror for the next week—I can not face that woman again. I must save enough for that.
May 19th.