I've had a run of pipes this week and, certainly, it's slowed me down. I'm constipated and plagued with childish ailments, runny nose and random itching. I've taken so much in the way of O I now no longer know if I even need a piss. My bladder has inflated to documentary levels. Of course, if my mind were to slow the way my body has then I'd be kicking up a proper storm. Perhaps it has? Suicide is no longer an option. It hasn't been since the birth of Thom. And even this morning I realised that a mere glance at a decent picture can warm me sufficiently. I spent a little time with my master's portrait of his second wife, Helene Fourment in a Fur Wrap. That was enough to feel part of life, least for today.

I'd like to talk to Karen.

I'd like to tell her why we failed to mend our relationship. (Because of Thom).

I'd like to lose some weight, give up the O, the fire in the belly, generally, all that, sharpen up. I shall take a week in Rome, I think. All I need are my masters. Yes, I shall have a week in Rome, that'll quicken me again. And god alone, I hope to make it. What if I am waylaid and land up talking to someone? Fuck me, I'll book it now.