Sunday, January 23, 1983

Desert island dusk

I read Heart of Darkness all day. It’s a really good book, especially the ending. I thought about writing a lot of the lines and passages down to remember them.

Everything still feels unreal and so very strange. I laid on Barry’s bed as the blue gloom of dusk gradually shrouded the two huge feathery trees towering outside his window. Bowie played softly on the stereo. It's as if somehow I’m set apart and everyone else is living out day-to-day life while I remain marooned and isolated in an obsessive mental prison.

This same mood haunts and plagues me when I'm in the kitchen and even outside.

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