December 30, 1971 (I was 27)
I think I’m getting another creeping case of
existentialism
right in the middle of my
romantic transcendental period (or is it over) .
I don’t feel naturalistic
because at the moment the environment seems
as impotent as myself. I’ve just got the cosmic creep (sometimes
known as the cosmic cry of
ecstasy). If anything figures,
it’s that all
must be one. I guess that one, in the whole, could
be as disintegrated
as it is in it’s
parts. All this, in that case, is
some kind of come together
wet dream in the seventh
day’s night, and tomorrow, baby, come the
Hard Eight.
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