Diary of a Drug Fiend

172 The Diary of a Drug Fiend our Selves. Those Selves were one Self which was whole. Any positive expression of it was of necessity partial, incomplete, inadequate. The Stars are im- perfection of Night; but at least these thoughts are immeasurably faster and clearer than anything I have thought all my life. If I were ever to wake up—it seems impossible that I ever should—this entry will probably be quite un- intelligible to me. It is not written with the purpose of being intelligible or any other purpose. The idea of having a purpose at all is beneath contempt. It is the sort of thing a human being would have. How can a supreme being inhabiting eternity have a purpose? The absolute, the all, cannot change; how then could it wish to change? It acts in accordance with its nature; but all such action is without effect. It is essentially illusion; and the deeper one enters into one’s self the less one is influenced by such illusions. As the night went on, I found myself less and less disturbed by my own exquisite emotions. I felt myself dissolving deliciously into absence of interruption to the serenity of my soul.... I think writing this has reminded me of what I used to think was reality. It was time to go out and have lunch. The luxurious lethargy seems insuperable. .. . It isn’t hunger; it’s habit. Some instinct, some obscure and obscene recollection of the lurking brute drives one to get up and go out. The dodge for doing this is to take three or four rather small sniffs in quick succession. C. would be much better, but we haven’t got any. September 1 What ages and ages have passed! These filthy lodgings have been Eden without the snake. Our lives have been Innocence ; no toil, no thought. We did not even eat, except the little food the woman brought in. We scared her, by the way. She can’t or won't get us any H. or C. The morphine girl has disappeared.