o, that it were possible we might but hold some two days conference with the dead!!
from them i should learn somewhat, i am sure, i never shall know here.
i'll tell thee a miricle; i am not mad yet, to my cause of sorrow.
the heaven o'er my head seems made of molten brass,
the earth of flaming sulphur yet i am not mad.
i am acquainted with sad misery, as the tann'd gally slave is with his oar... necessity makes me suffer constantly, and custom makes it easy.
whom do i look like now?

duchess, babe, i totally sympathise. they be callin' me crazy too.

flicking through my notebook whilst congestion has a tiny party in my nostrils, adhearing to the old cliche of burrowing senselessly into my bedsheets whilst coughing into tissues,
(day off college to-day)
i'm reading some of the things i've written.

fact?
fiction?

i try and concentrate on the gaps between your teeth, the salmon pink flesh under your eye as you pull on the tops of your cheeks. but you will always have those perfect slender fingers.

bottomless fiction.
that stupid letter
my warbling rants
extracts from poems written by people who probably appreciate the sophistication of munching on a good creme brulee a lot more than me.
i actually nearly puked.
notes on subjects i don't need to be studying
scribbled in italics because that way
it's easier to write faster
and i wish i didn't know that.

i may well burn this notebook!

my eyes are hot and uncomfortable inside my head right now
they may scurry off to france
to see the eiffle tower or some other beautiful cliche