September 28, 2005:

Why do you think of her now, after so much distance, a space which you cultivated deliberately, in anger and futility and contempt?

Because I'm about to travel. Because I found her handwriting in my notebook. Because she'll understand why this trip is important to me, even though her most likely response would be to struggle relentlessly to wreck it. Because it's nearly my birthday. Because I saw her picture, looking sad.

Why would it matter to you whether she understands or not?

Because in the beginning that was the thing that compelled me to her. Because I clung to that illusion long after it had been rationally shattered. Because it was important to me. Because it's a habit and it dies hard.

A particular kind of habit.

Yes. An ugly and unhealthy one. Stockholm Syndrome. A form of addiction.

So that you plan to do what, now, with this insight?

I don't know. Allow it to exist. That already is a victory.

Over her?

No! Over myself!

Do what thou wilt shall be the whole of the law.