up and edge over but just then she turns around and starts back. . . “And if I call her ‘that nut’ in my secret thoughts wonder what she calls me?”—O hell, I’m sick of life—If I had any guts I’d drown myself in that tiresome water but that wouldnt be getting it over at all, I can just see the big transformations and plans jellying down there to curse us up in some other wretched suffering form eternities of it—I guess that’s what the kid feels—She looks so sad down there wandering Ophelialike in bare feet among thunders.
On top of that now here come the tourists, people from other cabins in the canyon, it’s the sunny season and they’re out two three times a week, what a dirty look I get from the elderly lady who’s apparently heard about the “author” who was secretly invited to Mr. Monsanto’s cabin but instead brought gangs and bottles and today worst of all trollopes—(Because in fact earlier that morning Dave and Romana have already made love on the sand in broad daylight visible not only to others down the beach but from that high new cabin on the shoulder of the cliff) (tho hidden from sight from the bridge by cliffwall)—So it’s all well known news now there’s a ball going on in Mr. Monsanto’s cabin and him not even here—This elderly lady being accompanied by children of all kinds—So that when Billie returns from the far end of the beach and starts back with me down the path (and I’m silly with a big footlong wizard pipe in my mouth trying to light it in the wind to cover up) the lady gives her the once over real close but Billie only smiles lightly like a little girl and chirps hello.
I feel like the most disgraceful and nay disreputable wretch on earth, in fact my hair is blowing in beastly streaks across my stupid and moronic face, the hangover has now worked paranoia into me down to the last pitiable detail.
Back at the cabin I cant chop wood for fear I’ll cut a foot off, I cant sleep, I cant sit, I cant pace, I keep going to the creek to drink water till finally I’m going
