Now the moths will I think fill out the skeleton which I dashed in here: the play-poem idea: the idea of some continuous stream, not solely of human thought, but of the ship, the night &c, all flowing together: intersected by the arrival of the bright moths.  A man & a woman are to be sitting at table talking.  Or shall they remain silent? It is to be a love story: she is finally to let the great moth in...But it needs ripening.  I do a little work on it in the evening when the gramophone is playing late Beethoven sonatas. (The windows fidget at their fastenings as if we were at sea).