I always come to this thing when I'm having a hard time, and right now, I'm having a hard time. I can't eat, I can't sleep. Everything in my life feels like it's falling apart, and I can't do anything right. I know it's all my own fault, but I keep screwing up. I feel so lonely; I need someone to talk to, but I can't talk about any of the things going on.

So, I'll write a little here. 

Even then it was too late for tragic women, tragic anything

Peggy spent half of each day trying to wake up, and
the other half preparing for sleep. Around five, she
would mix herself something preposterous and '40s-is
like a Grasshopper or a Brass Monkey, adding a note
of gaiety to her defeat. This shadowlife became her.

She always had a glow on; that is, she carried an aura
of innocence as well as death with her.

The Sublime

Remember when I was young and tender enough that I needed poetry?

Little Sunday night Steve Scafidi, since I'm thinking on dreams and love:

(...)

Touching the hair of your niece who laughs at water. Flying
over cornfields so close and so openly that when you wake
there is silk in your beard. Your arms are tired and hang
at your sides like the wings of a migratory bird who is about

to die. And what good is a dream finally? It breaks your heart
and you stand in the lush dark of the moment after twilight
ends and begin to sing and nothing makes sense to you
and you sing louder for a while, then awkwardly sit down

where you are. And the stars overhead shine a little—no more
or less than usual—and whether it is daylight and they are invisible
or whether it is night and they are the embers of a blacksmith's
fire, they shine and you are grateful. That love is like a hammer.

This is an old song, these are old blues

I wish literally anything would not be the absolute most terrifying worst for one second so I could catch my breath.

I wasn't a catch, I wasn't a keeper, I was walking around like I was the one who found dead John Cheever

I'd let myself run out of gin over the winter, being inclined to drink it as a rule and thinking it best to not have it around during my more gloomy months. But now it's spring, and I got a nice bottle for quarantine. I'm having my first martini now as out the window, the sunset cools off behind the mountains.

I have two emotions right now - the kind of anxiety where I feel every moment entirely filled with ominous foreboding, like something terrible is about to happen, and this time I won't be able to hack it. I truly don't have any strength or reserve right now. The other option is existential blankness. I'm not sure I really prefer it to the former.

Just fucking kill me.