232 The Diary of a Drug Fiend
changes into another to prevent the edge being taken
off the suffering. It would be incredibly blissful if one
could experience something new, however abominable.
The man that wrote that poem has left out nothing.
Everything that comes into my mind is no more than
an echo of his groans.
*““ Body and soul alike
Traitors turned black-hearted,
Seeking a place to strike
In a victim already attuned
To one vast chord of wound.”
The rhythm of the poem, apart from the words,
suggests this moto perpetuo vibration. Yet the nervous
irritability tends to exhaust itself as such. It is so
unendurable ; the only escape seems to be if one could
transform it into action. The poison filters through
into the blood. I am itching to do something horrible
and insane.
“Every drop of the river
Of blood aflame and a-quiver
With poison secret and sour—
With a sudden twitch at the last
Like certain jagged daggers.”
When Peter crosses the room, I see him
“With blood-shot eyes dull-glassed
The screaming Malay staggers
Through his village aghast.”
It is natural and inevitable that he should murder
me. I wish he were not so weak. Anything to end it
all. :
The medical books said that if one didn’t die out-
right from abstention, the craving would slowly wear
off. I think Peter is already a little stronger. But I