August 17 — Back in the mire
The happiness is cheap and the stories are shit — no literary value whatsoever. And yet I run after it hard, trying in vain to block thoughts of her face that pop up in my head, wringing Indian burns on my conscience. The jerking and shirking of responsibility crown the evening like a dunce cap from hell. I’m moving in two days and almost nothing is packed. My possessions are splayed about at home, cluttering tables and walking space. It’s a perfect picture of my heart right now — no order or discipline, divided and cast about vainly in every which direction. This is no way to live.