When one is lost in the fog, one wants to smash one’s head through the glass just to FEEL SOMETHING, just to remember that one does have some reality left in one’s body, just for the red blood to remind oneself that there IS still colour in this world. I commit my crimes just to feel something, I suppose. Oscar Wilde kept going back to his rent boys just so he could feel something. Wittgenstein kept creeping back into the Prater just so he could feel something. My world has become grey. Lonely? You don’t have to be lonely. Just come and see Tallulah. We can chase your troubles away. Even that option is not open to me anymore. And yet the last time I felt really high was the Rake’s Progress night. Ah, the joy of doing what one shouldn’t! Victorian decadence! Beardsley! Dowson! The thrill of men with their rough hands, and their rough mouths! Watching as the Egyptian Queen Nefertiti painted the veins in her massive breasts blue and her nipples gold. I laughed with mad delight as I smashed all that was most holy! No. I didn’t. The secret is to live life at such a pace, to blaze like a fiery comet through the fog. To zip around like the ball of lightning in Tintin & the Seven Crystal Balls.