And what is happy? It is a going always on. There is something better to be done than I have done, and spurred by the fair delusion of progress, I will seek to progress, to whip myself on, to more and more- to learning. Always.

I would say everything should be able to come into a poem, but I can't put toothbrushes into a poem, I really can't!

Tonight I am ugly. I have lost all faith in my ability to attract males, and in the female animal that is a rather pathetic malady . . . I don't care about anyone, and the feeling is quite obviously mutual. What is it that makes one attract others?

Is there no way out of the mind?

I'm doped and thick from my last sleeping pill.

I think I am worthwhile just because I have optical nerves and can try to put down what they perceive. What a fool!

Very depressed today. Unable to write a thing. Menacing gods. I feel outcast on a cold star, unable to feel anything but an awful helpless numbness.