It's good to talk - kinda essential when you're relating with anyone who isn't you. Incomplete. Incompetent. Verbally constipated. In desperate need of a laxative. Words flow like glass - takes several millennia for each word to drip out. I think just about the worst thing I can imagine happening to me is some freak accident granting me immortality. At least when I think eternal loneliness I know it is only another 60 years tops - God that seems a long time. I'd wish that I had someone to share it with if it wasn't pointless. Even if I met her I'd be too shit scared to talk to her. At best I would bore her - at worst insult or upset her by giving the impression I was ignoring her. I am such a monumental fuck-up.
Monday 6 December 1999
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