If You Want To Be True To

I Mean I Never Feel I Feel What I Ought To Feel.

My Hatred Of Crowds, The Obviousness Of Crowds, Of Anything En Masse. Is This Why I Like Little-known Books? A General Desire To Escape The Main World.

Whole Sight; Or All The Rest Is Desolation.

The Dead Live." "how Do They Live?" "by Love.

It's No Good. I've Been Trying To Sleep For The Last Half-hour, And I Can't. Writing Here Is A Sort Of Drug. It's The Only Thing I Look Forward To. This Afternoon I Read What I Wrote... And It Seemed Vivid. I Know It Seems Vivid Because My Imagination Fills In All The Bits Another Person Wouldn't Understand. I Mean, It's Vanity. But It Seems A Sort Of Magic... And I Just Can't Live In This Present. I Would Go Mad If I Did