Lost Life ^^^^^^^^^^^^^M. Wood^^^^^^

I find myself muttering again, "I wish I had friends." But do I? I wouldn't know what to do with them, and if I had them, I would probably be longing to separate myself from them to get back to my reading. This is not to say that I don't need friends, not to mention a whole social life of work as well as play, to be a part of the living community around me. But I am so estranged from all of that, and it is too late for me to try to be normal now.

Besides, the same problem would be waiting for me: I am too much injun to thrive in this civilization. That is, after all, why I have been effectively running around in the wilderness by myself all these years and going mad, trying to live a life of the mind and failing, but preferring this to being a wage-slave and hanging out with fellow bottom-feeders, swimming together in our little segregated, polluted channel. But flailing about in my own bullshit is not a real answer. But, hell, I have been living this way this long, I don't see why I cannot go on like this for another few years, if I have that long. If it gets too hard, I can just sleep more.