I prefer English gardens to French gardens. Its not that order and harmony are distasteful to me; nor is it that the imitation of nature delights me. Its simply that I like not knowing exactly where I am.
When I wake up, my mouth is open. My teeth are furry: it would be better to brush them in the evening, but I am never brave enough. Tears have dried at the corners of my eyes. My shoulders do not hurt any more. Some stiff hair covers my forehead. I spread my fingers and push it back. It is no good: like the pages of a new book it springs up and tumbles over my eyes again.