It's difficult to use the keyboard. I wish that they hadn't taken away my old typewriter. It wasn't that haunted. Doctor Curwen is a fool. He listens to those prigs in the East Wing too much. Old biddies with nothing better to do with the dried-out remainder of their shrill and selfish lives, they sit and gossip and struggle to milk anything entertaining from their sordid little minds. Bah. 'Bunch together a group of people deliberately chosen for strong religious feelings, and you have a practical guarantee of dark morbidities expressed in crime, perversion, and insanity.' I read that once, somewhere, probably in one of Wilbur's letters. He tends to write a lot of letters. I often wonder how he manages to get any of his work done, or if he'll ever finish his seemingly never-ending novel.
Wilbur is very possibly the only friend I have left in this cruel, intemperate world. He called this afternoon to let me know that he'd be visiting again soon. He has matters of great import to discuss with me, apparently.
I fear that I increasingly find it difficult to converse socially any more. I cannot bear to talk much now. I am becoming silent, relying instead upon my pens and the computer to handle most of my discourse and communication. Indeed, far from criticizing Wilbur's usual penchant for epistolary expression over casual conversation, I am a bit discomfitted by his sudden need to visit this drab old manse with its dusty windows, cool air and unpleasant mold stains. It is an unsightly abode that I now inhabit, for I am sunk to a low estate, not wholly by my own past actions.
But enough of such concerns. My friend is coming to visit and I am most curious as to his recent trips to Harvard and the ancestral estates of his family back East. Perhaps he will bring along some of that excellent chowder that he managed to bring back last time. I've never had anything quite like it before or since.
