I'll tell you what, the silence tonight. Unbearable. Not sure why that is. Drying out from the weekend. Yesterday's diazepam leaving its slugtrail over my membrane. Feels as if I would shatter like cheap glass if I heard a sudden noise. But I fill the void with music. Impressionistic music. Ravel, Bacarisse. Love the sound of that. That mad bushy-faced cunt Nietzsche was right: without music life would be a mistake. Take me somewhere I don't know and where yet I feel fated to go. Beautiful while it lasts. But what next? What now? There has to be a something.
Keep going back to the memory of my remark to Gerry about joggers. I said that joggers gave the impression of being pathological or something, that they ran and ran and kept on running because if they were to stop they'd go mad or die. Gerry laughed. I assumed at the time he laughed because he thought it an amusing apercu, and I felt quite pleased with myself, but now I know he was laughing at my naivety. Because it's not just the joggers, it's all of us, and I just hadn't realised it. We are all running, sweating, panting, to escape madness or thoughts of death.
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