I had a flash, like a hallucination. It half strangled me.

“Fuck, Betty … you didn’t …”

She gave me a huge smile […]

“Yes I did. Sure I did.”

Philippe Djian’s “Betty Blue” Translated by Howard Buten

Up, lad: when the journey’s over

There’ll be time enough to sleep.

“Reveille,” A Shropshire Lad (1896), no. 4 — A. E. Housman

Notes from 2001, August [X]

Subject: How are we gonna get the ball rolling on these letters. is it a little mad? Why do we do this to ourselves? Part 1

Absolutely shattered today—I took something to help to me sleep last night after three days of not not being able to switch off. It might’ve been over-kill. There’s something about those first-generation antihistamines which aren’t content with aiding sleep. They simply must, absolutely and completely bollocks up the next day with that fake-wake.  Talk about rough. Jesus. I’m not sure what the alternative is—it’s like it used to be: out til all hours. I’m sure most of the promiscuousness was because of the insomnia. It stops being fun after a while—five hours sleep every two and a half days with just the two settings (borderline mania and coma) isn’t helping anyone.

Anyway, I need to check my notes from last night—and then make notes on my notes—no death. I don’t think I had any plans to go there, but zombie children? Something you’re holding back my love? Of course you are. You want me to follow the birdy. Your birdy.

One thing I’m gonna need to think about a bit more is the literary “rules” for myself. I mean, why is a diary entry different from a journal, and a journal from a notebook—different from this? But this won’t be shared? Or will it. Better start numbering these things, just in case.

God, I haven’t locked anything in yet—maybe they don’t need to be? “Rules” are a rookie move, right? But, but. but—if I can get it right from the off, it’ll be interesting to see how I write about fights, friends, the beach, whatever scenario pops in my mind. How will I think about fucking you depending on the genre? What happens when I have to share you!

All in good time. You’ll relish the sharing. Just so you’ll have an excuse to tell me everything.

How am I even supposed to write about it? I can’t write sex-scenes—but how hard can it be? Have I ever read a decent one? (good point). I’ll work it out I guess: practise makes perfect.

So what’s next? What’s. Next. Not a question. Forget the sex, please.

Yes, I started a “diary” entry this morning (wasn’t really morning): stream of consciousness (obviously), quibbling with myself over what I mean when I use certain words etc—typical stuff!

I’m in no rush to use phones, not really. I had no intention to ask, but. Is there a but? No, it’d break the fourth wall way too much. We’ve got to make this as agonisingly arm’s length as possible. I think I’d like phones to be a past “bone of contention” for me—I like the idea of me wanting to talk to you, you having other ideas and inflaming the situation by —Hmmm. What could it be: audio files of you reading, faking orgasm? Pictures, links? Obviously you win!

I already fucking miss you. I can’t do this.

—JustD

*Josh Hernandez’s, ‘ lI hope it was worth all this’ (https://www.instagram.com/mad.charcoal/)