I have not been out for several days. I am nearly spent of food and drink. The two bottles of calvados have become barely a dram in one of them. The tomatoes are gone but one. The lettuce has been gone since yesterday. But still I remain indoors reading. The journal has become my obsession. It has become my life. It has become my only form of sustenance.
And the tale continues to unfold. And I feel ever closer to that abyss. I slip closer with each page that I read. But I can’t stop reading.
I am abandoning the convention of indenting extractions from the journal. I was doing that to assign to those extractions the property of a quote. Now that their discovery has been made I am abandoning any artifice that gives me the shelter of treating “imagined events and dreamed events and invented events” as imagined, dreamed or invented. Such is my precarious state that I now consider them all to be real.