Discover more from The Last Hundred Miles
March 22nd, 1971
It just occurred to me that one person I have loved entirely and constantly through many years is Mark. I’ve forgotten about him– I haven’t hurt about him– just every now and then.
I’m happy. I’m stoned. I am at home. My Home. God God God My Home.
I am in my new apartment. I’ve been here the past two days. Everything seems to be falling into place. I suppose this will be the week– I’ll move in sometime this week.
I’m almost afraid of this place. It’s mine. It’s a home and it’s mine. I’ve dreamed of living like this for so long– now it’s almost difficult for me to cope with.
I can see what my life is going to be here. Wonderful. Living, sleeping, o[?]ning.
It’s such a sense of security.
I want to grab on to this time now while I have it because I feel as though this must be a rather delicate time for me– one that will be gone before I know it. When everything is in order at this point– then everything is perfect. Life itself is a fulfillment. I must hang on to this period and drain it entirely before it’s over. I feel as though I am primed for one hell of a tragic crash. It will nearly annihilate me but I can do nothing but accept the part.