Saturday, March 3, 1984


My moods seem to fluctuate between extremes: more often than not they are of the wearying, unendurable variety. Only occasionally do I feel OK, and by that I mean truly OK. There is something caught up inside me which is trying to escape and I can’t find a way to release it. Voiceless. I speak with the whine of sober routine on these pages.

About nine p.m., Barry, Alex, Lee and I raided an empty block of offices off the Wickbourne Road and stole tools, calculators and an oscilloscope from a downstairs workshop. We had to climb ladders and scaffolding to reach a third floor window. I was shitting myself, nothing but a bar of steel between me and death. It was the fear of my own fear that was the problem, knowing that through fear I could make a stupid mistake and kill myself. We should get a £100 or so for the oscilloscope.

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