February 24th, 1971

This evening has been very warm, very nice, very good.

The bus ride home was electric. Dusk. Lights. People. Bouncing through silent electric movie dusk… 

The house. The old white house on 18th St. My house now. My home. Home. Ringing the bell for Peggy and Ed– Peg running up the stairs– hair flying– just running up and up and up. Warm, inside, light. Smoking, drinking tea, looking at 1930 calendar pictures.

Walking home alone.

Here, now. 

Jean wanted me to come to the hotel tonight. Of course. A set-up situation for Yolanda. God, I cannot face her. I shrink from contact. Can it be that I am filled with such ultimate self-contempt that I cannot allow anyone to love me and allow me to retain integrity? 

I think my emotions and logic are schizoid.

I will think of all this tomorrow. But, now I’m stoned. I smoked to get my head together to write. Now my head is so together– “dey ain’t no sheet worth worryin’ ‘bout noway…”

Which defeats some purpose. I think…

Later, sweetheart…