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March 26, 1926, New York.
It has rained all morning. Early I sat in a restaurant with John in Van Cortlandt Park watching it. Of late I am possessed with a fever to write, and after I have searched all day through the library looking for material on the city hall and the Lowbes [[?]] case I am weary. It is more than that, for my only hold on life, a great freeness and love of the rhythm of life, a passion for wandering aimlessly through streets, [[strikethrough]]le[[/strikethrough]] becomes less intent, the more I strive. Yet I want to get my feelings on paper. I have a feeling that it is laziness that keeps me from the effort. But now I cannot be sure. What does it matter if I never write. Why should one unless he is forced to it to ease a longing.

The old newspapers I have read fascinate me. The titles are just like Horatio Alger books such as 'A Fast Young Man', or 'Rowdies attack Lady' And then the Burdell-Cunningham case. Mrs. Cunningham who has been the late Dr Burdell's mistress is to lose all his money unles [[sic]] she has an heir. The fake birth with descriptions of the groanings of Mrs C, the lambs blood smeared on the linen, and the placenta carried from Below are superb in their simplicity. And the sensational strain in the papers now- graphic, mirror etc.

But we sat in the restaurant where the men who brought the food and