"It was lovely to be tired."

A few days ago I was inspired to go back to A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man and relive my falling in love with Joyce. Smiling out loud on the subway, having to stop every paragraph so I can read it over and over and over and over until it sinks in and the picture sets behind my closed eyelids...it's so beyond my own grasp of language to really describe how he makes me feel...it's close to that thing of having no need to move on, when a few words (as like a certain kind of touch) can make you perfectly content to stay forever...maybe this hunt is only about replacing that feeling from when I was a kid and would lie in bed all day with my books...fantasy fantasy fantasy...where it all makes sense.

So back to this world, it seems it was worse than he let on. Tomorrow I will once again spend visiting hours at the mental hospital, a place I forget some, most, people never see from the inside even once. But I've never managed to master the whole walking away thing...probably I guess never quite convinced myself to believe in it.

Today was full of tiny episodes of the "too fucking vivid" variety (apologies to Tom Robbins). All I want to do now is sleep.