#parks.

She seemed not at all her bright unattainable self but rather a hazy and ineffably tender apparition, all slender wrists and shadows and disordered hair, the Camilla who resided, dim and lovely, in the gloomy boudoir of my dreams.

Madness. It would be easy for me to again feel the mood I had aboard the ship to New York when I wanted to drown myself. When I write Eduardo my imaginary letter, I say, “I am glad to have escaped the inferno for twenty-four hours of dreams.” I mean this. My attraction to drugs is based on an immense desire to annihilate awareness.