It was all going so well. Still is, if I think about it. Today, for instance, I jumped, bright-eyed, out of bed at 8 am. I cleaned up some, cut out pictures and other miscellania from miscellenius places and started putting things up on my walls, cooked myself some food, read some old poems and old journals and the like, talked for a bit on the phone.

About two hours ago this current bout of panic began. Right when I was talking with my mom and brother Shawn (whose voice has deepened dramatically in the last month. Disconcerting). He's coming for 2 weeks. My dad and brother Joe will be here for the second week as well. My mom is not coming. I really can't quite understand the level of anxiety this whole thing is churning up.

I'm cranky. I'm tired. I took a fitful nap earlier. Made me sweaty and headachey.

I decided that my carpets needed some cleaning. I vacuumed. I used the carpet spot cleaner and scrubbed, arbitrarily, four spots over and over again, even though there are far more than four spots that need cleaning. But I had to get those four spots clean. Just those four.

I listened to some Tim Buckley. Starsailor. I used to find that whole album unlistenable, except for "Moulin Rouge" and the most beautiful song ever recorded, "Song of the Siren." But I'm slowly coming around to it. The lyrics are all wonderful, but the music is strange, to put it mildly. I read that Mr. Buckley considered this his masterpiece so I try to listen to it all the way through. Sometimes I still have to skip certain songs, though.

It's hot in my house and I wish I had some ice cream. I wish I had the whatever it takes to get myself dressed and feeling like a human being on planet earth who lives among other fellow human beings on planet earth. I wish for company. I'm probably too wound up and weird for company.

I'm calling in sick tomorrow. I don't want to go to work. I don't want anything. Contrariwise, I want everything. I want the whole world. Give me nothing, give me everything. Just do it now.