26th
I had been accumulating and studying women all my life. Once, long. Until the delusion of love lost its power over me. And each casual conversation magnified my sense of the hollowness of the pursuit to which I had dedicated my adolescence.
Caught, to pass time in the company of other people. There were the remaining hours of the week to think about. And a handful of mechanical distractions to make me endurable. Like sex, reading, exercise, or travel.
Lacking even the combativeness to feel truly bad. And anything except “otherness” toward my body and the deadening depersonalization of anti-psychotics, anti-depressants. And paranoid-depressive battered, breaded, fried … food of thought.
Dad’s rejection of any creative contribution and the realization that he innocently, blamelessly, disliked me.
