11pm Another fevered letter I'm sure you'll never read. During my shower I imagined my life as a table with a ratchet-like track upon it. Along this track moved a little box., and every time I performed a certain action it would move another notch towards the table edge. Being a ratchet, there was only one way to move, towards the edge, oblivion, suicide. And each action gave off a click, only audible now that I am listening for it. I feel very close to the edge.
In the office this morning R interrupted one of my flights of fancy with a "get off the drugs" comment. Ironic, hey. Only when I am straight do they say that. When I'm stoned I'm a good boy, quiet and well-behaved. When I have no drugs I get carried away with my stories and never know when to stop, or if I do know I can't do jacksie about it.
Ach!