A psychiatrist is the god of our age. But they cost money.
I have a violence in me that is hot as death-blood.
I wanted to tell her that if only something were wrong with my body it would be fine, I would rather have anything wrong with my body than something wrong with my head, but the idea seemed so involved and wearisome that I didn’t say anything. I only burrowed down further in the bed.
I must be lean & write & make worlds beside this to live in.
The slime of all my yesterdays rots in the hollow of my skull.
And there's the fallacy of existence: the idea that one could be happy forever and age with a given situation or series of accomplishments.