I am sorry for Norse in his suicide knot, and I have been in my little suicide knot off and on, off and on, and it’s funny, if and when one does break out of the suicide knot, one feels stronger, better, a hell of a lot tougher, can take almost anything. the suicide thing may even be a process of growth—you fall back almost to zero, then lift back. it’s a kind of rebirth process. I imagine it would even be good for flies. do flies think of suicide? just think how easy it would be for them to get their dirty work done for them. a nice little bloodsucking web with eyes and fangs and suck suck, held there, no backing out. all we’ve got is the tops of buildings for no-backout, and we change our mind 6 times on the way down and are insane by the time we hit the pavement. I like to work in more lively elements of variable choice and chance: sleeping pills, gas, the garrote. I tried gas once. turned on all the burners and laid down on the bed. it almost knocked me out, I was on the way, but something about breathing in all that gas, a kind of a grey-yellow feeling, and it gave me a headache, a terrible headache and the headache woke me up. and I got up laughing with the headache, YOU DAMN FOOL, YOU DON’T WANT TO DIE! and I kept laughing, it seemed very very funny to me and I walked in and turned off the oven and all the jets on top of the stove and I went out and bought myself a good bottle of whiskey and some very expensive cigars, and that night I ended up balling with a woman but I didn’t tell her she was fucking an almost-dead man. these whores have a way of lecturing like a mama and it can get very boring. you really can never tell a woman anything—they will always reshape and distort the thing out of perspective because the woman is the babbler of rebirth and responsibility; they really love us, the best of them do, and they care, but their way of caring is somehow unsatisfactory, it’s as if they want to cut the warts off of us instead of understanding the warts. they hope to clean us up to a big round zero, a kind of penitentiary happiness, a kind of in-jail happiness that cuts the balls quite off of clean feeling-being. a de-balled smiling cuntsucker, that’s what they want, and that’s why I can’t make it with any lady very long—I get this feeling that I am being stuffed into a drawer with the handkerchiefs, and they have such heinous ways of subjecting you to their love—like walking into the crapper while you are shitting and standing there humming, fixing their hair in the mirror, what hell, they love it, they love you, us, the stink of our turds, they are practicing the ultimate pain of childbirth and childrearing, it’s tough and they must practice it, the cape movements, you can’t blame them, but I wish they wouldn’t practice on me, I wish they wouldn’t make me the baby, the child, the blood, the screams, the bravery. I just want to be let alone; I just want to look at them awhile, their bodies walking across rooms or sitting in chairs, I want to notice the color of their dresses, the spikes on their shoes, I just want to eject a little semen, then forget it, hell. but they want to put me into their cage. fortunately, for me, I thrive on ISOLATION, hours days of being alone do fatten me. this sounds like bullshit to most. if I dared to tell them that I AM NEVER LONELY they would never believe me. I am a shit: I grow upon myself; I diminish in the company of others. I don’t like to diminish. it’s true that I have this fucking or non-fucking string between my legs that creates problems. this is why the true whore is my heroine.—she takes care of my string and leaves off. the harder the whore is, the more pleased am I. they will leave. then I can begin again. [* * *]