Diary of a Drug Fiend

Indian Summer 171 But not in the unutterable anguish of which the poet was writing. It is a formless calm. But love! We had never loved like this before. We had defiled love with the grossness of the body. The body is an instrument of infinite pleasure; but excitement and desire sully its sublimity. We were conscious of every nerve to the tiniest filament ; and for this one must be ineffably aloof from movement. H. makes one want to scratch, and scratching is infinite pleasure. But that is only a relic of animal appetite. After a little while, one is able to enjoy the feeling that makes one want to scratch in itself. It is an impersonal bliss perfectly indescribable and indescrib- ably perfect. I cannot measure the majesty of my consciousness; but I can indicate the change in the whole character of my consciousness. | I am writing this in the mood of the recording angel. I am living in eternity, and temporal things have become tedious and stupid symbols. My words are veils of my truth. But I experience quite definite delight in this diary. King Lamus is always at the root of my brain. He is Jupiter and I have sprung from his thought ; Minerva, Goddess of Wisdom ! The most tremendous events of life are unworthy trifles. The sublimity of my conceptions sweeps onward from nowhere to nowhere. Behind my articulate anthem is a stainless silence. I am not writing for any reason, not even for myself to read; the action is automatic. I am the first-born child of King Lamus without a mother. I am the emanation of his essence. I lay all night without moving a muscle. The near- ness of my husband completed the magnetic field of our intimacy. Act, word, and thought were equally abolished. The elements of my consciousness did not represent me at all. They were sparks struck off from