"Rather than love, than money, than fame, give me truth."

It's a new year. It's four am and my brain is boiling. Fermenting, fomenting, fluctuating. I haven't slept right in weeks.

On a semi-related note, I still don't know what to make of the unexpected guest at Christmas. She said she missed me. She wore red. Slender and shimmering, she is the destroyer of worlds. A virus. A ravening wolf at the door. She is Cathy Ames, she is Lillian Reardon, Miss Havisham. And in spite of everything about her that is timelessly and shamelessly awful, I do feel some small measure of sympathy for her. What a fucking can of worms that is.

At any rate, I have twenty days left of relative freedom. And though I haven't touched it since April, I think there'll be more scribbling turning up over at the "numbers project" soon. Because I left off with... her. Because I don't understand her, but I want to. And I burn quietly and I wonder if objectivity is even remotely possible when it comes to her. I know much of what she did and I can make informed speculations about the rest, but will I ever grasp the "why" of it? Probably not, but I want at it. Because without the "why" I can't know the truth of things. I feel somehow that grasping that truth would be an absolution of some kind.

But... maybe there's really not much there to understand, because some shit just won't ever make sense.