… All I am doing now is trying to put into practice the ‘ideas’ I have had for so long, of another and a far more truthful existence. I want to learn something that no books can teach me, and I want to try and escape from my terrible illness. That again you can't be expected to understand. You think I'm like other people—I mean, normal. I'm not. I don't know which is the ill me and which is the well me. I am simply one pretence after another. Only now I recognise it…

As for writing stories and “being true to one's gift,” I couldn't write them if I were not here, even. I am at an end of my source for the time. Life has brought me no flow. I want to write, but differently—far more steadily.