Just back from a trip to the mall and a long walk. And I’m fighting mad. I walked myself into a right little lather. I think what set it off was, I’ve been emailing this travel agency for about a week, and the fares they’ve offered have been more than I want to pay, but what can I do?

So I'm walking along, and all the time the airfare thing's just gnawing at me. I said, OK, take the cheapest fare you can get, fuck it. You’re giving up your flat, you don’t have steady work here, you don’t need a return ticket anyway. OK, fine. That’s settled. But then I got to thinking about what I was about to do. You don’t have anything to go back to in the first place, either. A place to stay for a few months. You’ll be in the black, that’s the only thing you’ve got going for you. You’re starting from scratch, with no recipe, though. From zero. And you’ve got a very limited time to set yourself up somehow. And I don’t mean as a snappy waiter in a little café. Time to grow up.

Oh, but I have no idea what that entails! You see how I got myself worked up? The return ticket, at this point at least, is only a sort of symbolic thing, a security blanket for me, something so that I won’t totally freak out and lose it completely. But I think it’s almost better not to have it, if you want to know the truth. If you freak out you freak out. I mean, you can do that anywhere. You shouldn’t fool yourself into thinking it’s any better to do it here. Anyway, what have you been doing here for the last year and a half but losing it? Do you need a return ticket to Bedlam? Would it make you feel better? More secure? Forget it. If you’re gonna start over, close the door behind you when you leave the sanitarium.