Another poet and I are presenting our work to the other colonists tomorrow night. Going through my poems, a lot of them don't make the grade. My mouth goes over the words, and the taste is different and strange—something has changed my rhythm of speech here. I wonder what it is. Only a few poems seem to fit this place.

We plan to go into town this afternoon to buy some wine for the reading. What does the wine do? Immobilises the audience, seduces them into a lulled state of mind, lubricates their ears. We'll turn on the heating in the library to further cocoon them. No escape. We're heartless poets.

I've been playing ping-pong some nights [not very well], and the physical exertion is strangely warming and pleasant. I'm happy to be the warm-up partner, and not play competitively, which tends to fluster me, so that I make mistakes. It gets people together, though. Ping-pong as the great connective tissue in MacDowell—who'da thunk it?

I love the soups that arrive in my lunch basket—so heartening. And the sticks of carrots taste so sweet and crunchy. No wonder rabbits like them.

It's notable how rapidly I've become used to my basket arriving at midday. Lunch was a little late arriving yesterday, and I started to feel slightly agitated. Feeding time at the zoo—throw in the meat quick.