Can not wait to go home and read a few pamphlets. They have all piled up on me, again. Tracts, solicitations of hope; slivers, where wood is needed most; faith, shadows, hints, suggestions; gloom amidst the muddy roots of pleasure; gnarled wellsprings, ifit springs at all. It generates susceptibility; gods, ideas, exercise, yoga, et al. There is a dourness to life that the very best among us sweat of, time being no cause for warrior.
Few things are as undramatic as a library. This library never extinguished that fire. Nothing really mattress, anyone kamikaze.
I would drink a bottle of wine, but don't wish to sit in bed; would have already left were it not for this book that I want to read, just arrived; to check my email, to nod once more without moving a pillow, to blink and close the world.
Few ever really works on their drug problems, they play on them, if at all.
The only unpayable debt is the sense of guiltiness; it is the one unforgivable skin, to believe that you can not be fore given skinned.