Up 5 am, as ever.

My low mood continues and, at a loss to explore or even refine it, I went shopping for a new translation of my Dante. Yesterday Helen placed my hand on her breast. I almost cried, but she turned away too quickly.

Haven't wanked for weeks.

I keep waiting for rain. I did this as a child, but no storm is sufficient now.

The O tires me out. Possibly I shall ring K and enquire after some stimulants. He has promised me a look at his 16th century edition of an Italian book on the varieties of the female breast. The longer I live the more I understand our entire failure to understand the art of living. They knew it, once.