Blank Doll.

I had a friend who used to give the women she admired blue roses. I like the gentle irony the very act embodies. That most elusive of botanical specimen, a blue rose, is after all a symbol of wishfulness and artifice.

Borrowed a number of interesting books. There is a history of France during the Enlightenment, a history of the world during the nineteenth century and a historical fiction about a catamite in ancient Egypt. I do not read enough I think, it rather annoys me.

It occurred to be the other day that I cannot be successful without experiencing physical excess, moral ruin and spiritual collapse by the age of thirty. The skin deathly cold and pale, the senses seared by alcohol, the eyes grown too sensitive to sunlight, lips and nostrils frosted with cocaine and a general awareness of one's own mortality.

So you see, I do have a plan. I plan to live my life to the fullest, to take it to the brink of destruction and then to let myself be redeemed by the all-salvaging light of a benign deity unfettered by the deadly mortal chains of religion.

C'est tout.