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3:56 pm | 28 January 2003 | on the verge

�I am too old, too wild. Under my thin membranes a dark heart beats like the silent threat of an orange-seed, held in its womb of juice.�

-one of the more deranged entries in my bedside journal, where I write
whatever occurs to me on that border between sleep and dream

Porkchop and I can�t stop talking about how something is �on the wind��some change in the air. Something is afoot. It�s rather like the wind rushing down the moors in Wuthering Heights. It�s rather like angst, real angst: dread.

This persistent psychological weight is unhinging me in significant-yet-still-socially-ignorable ways. For instance, I can�t stop listening to the Waterboys� �Fisherman�s Blues.� No, for real. It�s been two days and it�s on almost non-stop. I had a crying fit last night, and then I smoked about a thousand cigarettes and stared at the wall. My eyes are glassy, foreign. My laughter has become manic; i am smoking cigarettes too rapidly and then staggering. I lost ten pounds in a week and then ate ten ounces of raw salmon last night, three donuts today, forty gallons of coffee a week (probably closer to four gallons, but still). I didn�t recognize myself when I was cutting off my hair in chunks, without a mirror, and then throwing the clippings out the window. Yanqui U.X.O. is freaking me out unutterably and I can�t listen to it any more. I don�t remember my dreams until the next day when they play themselves out in diners, in my car, on the street. Last night I was crying and crying and my dog bit at my hands and i thought, If i am alone right now, i will go mad. I am alone right now. I keep thinking of the sea. I am on the verge of something. clm.


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