The short-lived joy of getting my pension sorted, of knowing that at least poverty is guaranteed and destitution less likely. A secure future of clipping coupons, special offers, mending and make doing, of involuntary vegetarianism and intermittent fasting, celebrating the smallest of victories and pleasures, of living at the bottom of the heap and learning to enjoy the view.

This had all been encoded in me from the earliest days, when I'd embraced a life of incurious sloth and indulgence, mocking the ambitions of others.

I get sick, age 30 years in two days and am confined to my bed, invalid and quarantined, reading books and making notes, going back to the days when my brain first exploded and I was full of hope. The places I would go, the things I would do, all of it now reduced to a mostly empty and unmade bed in a small room, in a nondescript town, in a small country in the middle of nowhere that no one plans to visit. My own incredible smallness in sync, once again, with the brevity of life and the meanness of my spirit.

I linger in sickness, explore it, feel the edges of infirmity and nurse regret for all the yoga yet undone, the friendships never made, the pain caused, the bottles drunk and the gradual dimming of the light.

I resolve, once again, to do better.

In midlife I found my true subject.

The bottomless realization that no one has ever envied me wisely.

Life careens from one near miss to another, punctuated by moments of stoned, drunken, musical, bookish, sexual, biophilic or otherwise forgetful bliss, a clear escape from time

Beyond that there's no stability, no still center other than terror.

I wanted to make money, to survive, thrive and be seen to have worth because of some inherent and somewhat unique ability, not just because I was a cog in the machine. And for me this had to come down to my own words, to the magic of laying the line.

I had it all worked out, and the only thing I needed was money.

And for the first time, but not the last, we reached that stage in the relationship when everything I did annoyed her, and the only ways forward seemed to be to collapse in on myself, hide in the closet or under the bed, or simply cease to exist.

I looked back, once again, on my failures with women.

Sometimes I must remember that words and music can be better than drugs.

I found out too late that I was not a serious person, and had lived a ridiculous life.