Diary of a Drug Fiend

Short Commons 149 something in one’s mind that prevents one from thinking of the thing one wants to. It was perfectly silly of us to be hunting round London for dope and getting mixed up with a rotten crowd like we did in Naples. It never struck us till to-night that all we had to do was to go round to King Lamus. He would give us all we needed at the proper price. Funny, too, it was Cockie that thought of that. I know he: hates the man, though he never said so except in an outburst which I knew didn’t mean anything.. We went to the studio in a taxi, Curse the luck, he was out! There was a girl there, a tall, thin woman with a white face like a wedge. We gave several hints ; but she didn’t rise, and wretched as we were, we didn’t want to spoil the market by telling her outright. Lamus would be there in the morning, she said. We said we'd be there at eleven o'clock. — We drove back. We had a rotten night economising. We didn’t dare tell each other what we really feared: that somehow he might let us down. ... I can’t sleep. Cockie is lying awake with his eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling. He doesn’t stir a muscle. It maddens me that he takes no interest in me. But after all, I take no interest in him. I am as restless as the wandering Jew. At the same time, I can’t settle down to anything. I keep on scribbling this stuff in my diary. It relieves me somehow to write what I feel. What is so utterly damnable is that I understand what I am doing. This complaining rambling rubbish is the substitute which has taken the place of love. What have I done to forfeit love ? I feel as if I had died and got forgotten in some beastly place where there was nothing but hunger and thirst. Nothing means anything any more except dope, and dope itself doesn’t really mean anything vital.