It's like a jumble of huts in a jungle somewhere. I don't understand how you can live there. It's really, completely dead. Walk along the street, there's nothing moving. I've lived in small Spanish fishing villages which were literally sunny all day long everyday of the week, but they weren't as boring as Los Angeles.
I do not like January very much. It is too stationary. Not enough happens. I like the evidences of life, and in January there are too few of them.
There is nothing going on. I took nothing you wanted. You can't have it back.
I like to sleep. I like to do nothing. Nothing is my favorite kind of something.
If you're not active - and I'm not active - and you don't watch what you eat, you can get big as a horse.
This afternoon held that special quality of mournful emptiness I've connected with late Sunday afternoons ever since childhood: the feeling of having nothing to do.
And I, the while, the sole unbusy thing, Nor honey make, nor pair, nor build, nor sing.
Gray day. Everything is gray. I watch. But nothing moves today.
When a soldier complains of his hard life (or a labourer, etc.) try giving him nothing to do.
Funny, nothing ever happens nowadays.
