Lacrimosa.

Frustrated? Yes. Why? Because it is impossible for me to be God- or the universal man and woman- or anything much. I am what I feel and think and do. I want to express my being as fully as I can because I somewhere picked up the idea that I could justify myself being alive that way. But if I am to express what I am, I must have a standard of life, a jumping off place, a technique- to make arbitrary and temporary organization of my own personal and pathetic little chaos. I am just beginning to realize how false and provincial the standard must be. That is what is so hard for me to face.

Murder Tramp.

All of this may just be a subtle way of egotistically separating myself from the common herd, but take it for what it's worth. As for free will, there is such a narrow crack of it for man to move in, crushed as he is from birth by environment, heredity, time and event and local convention. If I had been born anywhere else, I wouldn't be I. But I am I now; and so many others are irretrievably their own special variety of 'I' that I can hardly bear to think of it. I: How firm a letter; how reassuring the three strokes; one vertical, proud and assertive, and then the two short horizontal lines in quick, smug succession. The pen scratches on the paper...I...I...I...I.

Murder Boy.

I realize now that I am just a fool. The things that had been said and done meant nothing. I put weight behind these things, cherished them in a way. I let myself believe in them for the sake of finding something worth holding onto. In the end, I realize I am a fool. My intensity is a quality that ruins me. I feel, while you remain numb to my existence.