I've kept journals more than half a century. Have been transcirbing them... I really can't tell you why. Not a bad read when I'm not into some enfatuation.. blech... have come to the day I was hit by a car... thown through the windshield... 7 surguries. A new appreciation of PTS... I do well at disremmbering, at converting experience to ... other terms. But I haven't been able to type these accounts up... what I wrote in the days and months after... trying to grip the pen between my 2nd and 3rd fingers cause I had no controll of thumb and index finger. I blank out how awful those those months were... and then here they are.. written down. Not unlike the pages I wrote when I was floridly manic... who wrote this shit? How do I come to terms with this? I walk down the street--stuff comes back to me, pops into consciousness... from childhood to yesterday--stupid shit I did and said, and I hear myself cursing myself. You fucking asshole! You stupid picece of shit!... and i don't know who I'm talking to. And then... in a kind of weak defense... I remember good stuff I've done. That I like where this strange course of life has taken me... we're all like that, aren't we? All the shameful terrible stuff we did and thought... and ...I don't know. We try to learn. To do better. There are no saints.