I pause to record that I feel in extraordinary form. Delirium perhaps.

Don’t wait to be hunted to hide, that was always my motto.

Love, that is all I asked, a little love, daily, twice daily, fifty years of twice daily love like a Paris horse-butcher's regular, what normal woman wants affection?

You're on earth. There's no cure for that.

That double-headed monster of damnation and salvation--Time.

Already all confusion. Things and imaginings. As of always. Confusion amounting to nothing. Despite precautions. If only she could be pure figment. Unalloyed. This old so dying woman. So dead. In the madhouse of the skull and nowhere else. Where no more precautions to be taken. No precautions possible. Cooped up there with the rest. Hovel and stones. The lot. And the eye. How simple all then. If only all could be pure figment. Neither be nor been nor by any shift to be. Gently gently. On. Careful.

Nothing happens. Nobody comes, nobody goes. It's awful.