There’s been something wrong with me the last few days. It’s like the Strange Machine project downloaded too much information into my head. I can’t interact with the world without it spinning off into a thousand stories. Descriptives clinking up from the ring on my hand touching my water glass, the susurration murmur of the restaurant conversation drilling into me, seeking attention. Narratives spiralling off the most simple of things. I bite into my free-range beef burger and multi-plex layers of mad-cow, Briton, and end of the world shotgun scenarios unfold wetly like butterfly wings. Chemicals dripping from the udders of not quite cows. Something has snapped inside me. “I’ve never understood why girls date Boys With Cars, but Boys With Motorcycles I understand completely.” I wake up beneath an off-white ceiling, the window a blinded rectangle of dimly glowing light. I’m only one cigarette away from crumpling. Daddy said to marry someone richer than you are. The stars are spinning, the world is yawing off course, lean away from the turns, not into them. Momentum approaching torture. I stopped by a hideous house-party last night where everyone there was a caricature of a real person and it was like anthropology. I wanted to take notes.
No one should have this much ego conflict. Climb aboard, the train’s leaving the station. It’s not quite a problem, but I think I might be slightly broken. Like there’s a crack my thoughts are leaking through, dissolving me in acid fairy-tales.
Bill’s been calling lately. He’s been reading here, he sent me a letter. Three in the morning, surreal to sit reading it in darkness with Gavin leaving in the morning and Strange Machine going up in an hour. I’ve talked him into getting together Tuesday evening. We’re going to go over the B&W’s from eons ago and he’s going to bring me some dishes. I miss him quite a lot, the person underneath, I mean. However it goes, it will be interesting.