2002-02-22 - 3:10 p.m.

I don't want to put my hand into the water. I'm afraid. A noun untouched is a thing of beauty. I can only harm with missed co-ordination. My thoughts are the inexactitude of a swarm. I say that I want passion. I say so knowing what passion customarily entails. I do not have the legs for it. Perchance I cannot squeeze hard enough. I will not. I am afraid to glance at myself - so much so that the objects of an affection become pigs. The world's a sty. I am a farmer, the job has already been written. I have come before to the resting place of animals. A looking glass. I come with the wrong tools. There are too many gaps.

I wake up each morning and I am a day older. I cannot change. The chief warren of self-improvement is recognition, self-recognition. I can't endure it. I can't live knowing that 'this thing's to do'. Every time, then, I ingratiate-so - anticipate-then - and collude to Never. My loss is my own, but it is a small one. The waste grows less fragrant, because I am shrinking.

I want to love, but the terms of my love have already been written. They force discord. I shake away the lice of amelioration because it is a superficial discomfort. What of the 'root causes'? I stutter and I bolt and the timing is always off. I stop too soon. The faults are deep. I refuse to take the slightest step, because I am an intemperate militant. I want a Cultural Revolution, but the first of the month is the clarion to my next Restoration. My audience is my curse. I exist to please. I have more than myself for an audience. So I am this bien-pensant, smiling daffodil, of a man.

I need to forget, forget, forget.

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