I want to love somebody because I want to be loved. In a rabbit fear I may hurl myself under the wheels of the car because the lights terrify me, and under the dark blind death of the wheels I will be safe. I am very tired, very banal, very confused. I do not know who i am tonight

I cannot ignore this murderous self: it is there. I smell it, I feel it. I feed on it. I am middling good. I cannot live middling good. As soon as I sniff nonsuccess-in the form of rejections, in the form of physical perfection, in the form of relationships, in the form of intellectual capabilities, I accuse myself of being a hypocrite, posing as better than I am, at the bottom, bottom, lousy.

You are crucified by your own limitations. your blind choices cannot be changed; they are now irrevocable. You have had chances; you have not taken them. You cannot even decide to take a walk: you are not sure whether it is an escape or a refreshing cure from cooping yourself while waiting for your impending doom. You have lost all delight in life. Ahead is a large array of blind alleys. You are half deliberately, half-desperately, cutting off your grip on life. You cannot love, even if you knew how to begin to love. Every thought is a devil, a hell- if you could do a lot of things over again, ah, how differently you would do them! You want to go home, back to the womb. You watch the world bang door after door in your face, numbly, bitterly. You have forgotten the secret you knew once, once, of being joyous, of laughing, of opening doors