May 30 + 

Last night the sea was as flat as a pavement, a pretty barque with all her sails out to catch the smallest puff of wind⁠—the tiniest inspiration⁠—was nevertheless without motion⁠—a painted ship on a tapestry of violet. H⁠⸺ Hill was an immense angular mass of indigo blue. Even rowing boats made little progress and the water came off the languid paddles in syrupy clots. Everything was utterly still, the air thick⁠—like cotton wool to the touch and very stifling; vitality in living things leaked away under a sensuous lotus influence. Intermittently after the darkness had come, Bullpoint Lighthouse shone like the wink of a lascivious eye. + 

Pottering about all day on the Pier and Front, listening to other people’s talk, catching snippets of conversation⁠—not edifying. If there were seven wise men in the town, I would not save it. Damn the place! + 