Know thyself

I worry about the journal, of what it may unearth in me, of what it may encourage, feeding into self-delusion or fantasy; an insidious creep of personality that might as well go fuck itself for all its lack of insight.

Though insight it might, a different plight that I can’t (nor shall not) bear; it gobbles up my words and whims, and shits out all my care.

Congratulations. You know yourself. And what a crock of fucking wealth.