I spent an hour this morning by the sea. By and large, I prefer the apparatus of social existence, and feel either indifferent or mildly hostile to the sea. I experience all the transpersonal moments I require alone in my rooms, with a pipe of the finest O. Yet this morning I took a baleful coffee by the sea and decided to take stock. It has been clear for sometime that the malaise of recent weeks, the intensified scopophilia and increased use of O, along with periods of high, but temporary obsession, are features of an oedipal regression. My ego position is intact, my faculties grossly so, and the symptoms have only occasionally impacted upon my quality of life. All of this time I have known the cause but refused to work with it, preferring to enjoy the symptoms. It has not, I think, been a case of denial but rather of exploring the stretch, rather than the depth, of the problem. There is a certain vanity to this louche disregard, and I accept that.

I got this far, finished my coffee.

I saw Gareth walk by with his partner.

I finished the last of my biscuits, and taking the opposite direction, decided that I would finalise my plans for the healing of my soul, taking long strides on the promenade as I worked out who was to do what to my body. Later, on the recommendation of a penpal, I picked up the phone and booked a three hour session with Madame X, currently of Kensington. I then spent the evening reading Hardy's love poems to his deceased wife and from there, to thinking of my own mother who died when I was the age my son is now, and from there to bed, before caving in completely. After all, I will require all my strength and weakness tomorrow.