January 31st, 1973

I am tired. That’s it, I am tired. Long hard day. I worked at top speed from 8:30 to 6:00 today on the Parthian Shot– Marvin and two of his friends came down to get Margie and me high. We’re out of dope. I got very stoned and just couldn’t stay still– I washed the dishes and decorated in the kitchen for a bit. The kitchen is the heart of the apartment. I feel most comfortable– homey there. I took some polaroids I have of Jimmie to work and did some very smeary contrasty half-tone prints– I framed them and put them on the wall– they’re really intriguing– Margie made paper flowers and we’ve made it very homey and comfortable in the kitchen.

I’m so tired I have to go to bed. Been thinking about death all day. Last night I sat up in bed– and felt a weird sensation of rotting– Like an old vegetable– rotting. The dope– the da– my jagged energy level make me feel speedy nerves and depressed.

Some terror is trying to speak up within me so I turn away and try to not think– lonely, lonely– so I dream of an end to my aloneness.

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Love making is for me an act of mutual worship– I worship– I rip my guts out and lay them on my partners alter– I am secreting spit and moisture from every opening– wild inflammation of animal smells and sounds and spit and cum and a thousand hands and tongues.

I long to make love to Thomas Walsh.

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Why should I be any more tortured by the fact that I do not enjoy or crave or need sex with women than the heterosexual man who does not enjoy, crave, or need sex with me? He thinks himself perfectly normal and happy. I am impotent, neurotic, perverse–

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My entire life– my future– my world– my mind– my destiny rests on one thing– health.

It is 12 midnight– January 31st, 1973 and I have smoked my last cigarette.