indelible, inedible
Update: fear springs from delusion. I am all right. I don't know what it is about these mornings, though.
The sky is the color of thrice-used bathwater. I will not allow it to harm me. This is the problem with subscribing to moral systems—you start to suspect that despair is a sort of sin, and you will be held accountable. But I may not have gotten out of bed without that motivation, so I guess it's good. Mercy, mercy, Mr. Percy, there ain't nothing back in Jersey.
And once again I am I will not say alone, no, that's not like me, but, how shall I say, I don't know, restored to myself, no, I never left myself, free, yes, I don't know what that means but it's the word I mean to use, free to do what, to do nothing, to know, but what, the laws of the mind perhaps, of my mind, that for example water rises in proportion as it drowns you and that you would do better, at least no worse, to obliterate texts than to blacken margins, to fill in the holes of words till all is blank and flat and the whole ghastly business looks like what it is, senseless, speechless, issueless...
—Beckett, Molloy
