Everything is temporary except the music, and the tragedy. Three police cars were outside next door last night. Someone's boyfriend had died in her bed, under suspiscious circumstances. Probably a heroin overdose. I spoke to him a few times. He didn't smile at me much. His girlfriend tried to cut her wrists and had to be taken off somewhere for the night. Theier daughter, who is six, stayed with a neighbour. Their mother, who found the body, had to deal with it all. What a bloody mess this place is.

Sometimes I feel like I'm taking all the slack, sometimes like I'm attention-seeking with no good reason. People test me, see how far I can go. I'll show them: I've got nothing to lose, and I detest my own betrayal of my deepest beliefs, so why should I submit?

Fuck them. What do they know? They don't appreciate the finer points of despair: these golden afternoons I spend in my room, entirely alone. Total perfection, but emotionally I'm lonely, rock-bottom lonely, and I have nothing to aim for, or look forward to. These times are far better than those when I'm laughing and joking with my friends over a drink. I'm on a higher plane, I promise you.

I think I use the phrase "broken-glass plateau" too much when I write.

Everything I ever did was a lie, was a sin, was treachery to my own beliefs. Every time I said "I love you", I was just striving for the kind of emotion that would inspire me. I was always selfish like that. Claiming to produce "art", but in fact all I am is a hollow ruin with no excuse. Just because I never tried, just because I treated you like dirt. Just because of that you act distant? It's not like I wasn't the first to detach. I hurt you before you hurt me. Don't you try and claim to be wrong, or bad, because I did it first and I'm the bastard. Nobody ever hated myself like I do. I want to die more than you want me dead.

Please don't pretend I didn't have an impact on you, because I know I was your first and I know I fucked around with you so much more than anybody else, because I made you care for me as much as I thought I cared for you. Even now, when I'm trying to dissect my own agonising cowardice and foolishness, I can't help but talk about myself. Self-centred bastard. Don't pretend I'm anything else, and please don't try to comfort me, because I don't have the time. I have to go and strap myself to a set of red-hot irons for a few weeks.