I think I have $60 left. That's $2 per day for this month. Wouldn't be so bad if I didn't need junk. I spend $2 per day on junk alone. And I give Kiki 500 per day pocket money, and I have to feed him. He found work for three weeks, but the job gave out. His mother is sick and she can't work so he has to support her. My 500 goes, usually, to his mother. Then he will want another 500 to see a football game or a movie. Well enough of all this dreary ledger so inexorably in the red. [ . . . I have started writing a Chandler-style, straight, action story about some super Heroin you can get a habit on one shot with it or something similar. I'm not even sure yet. But it starts out 2 detectives come to arrest me. I know I am to be used in experiments with this drug. (They don't know this.) To save myself I kill them both. That is where I am now. On the lam. Waiting to score for 1/2 ounce of junk to hide out with, the alarm is going out right now; to every precinct, every prowl car, etc., etc. Don't ask me what is going to happen I just don't know. May turn allegorical or even sur-realist. A ver.9 I read interesting case. England. 2 naval Lieutenants. Good friends. Drinking. One hits a shot glass every time at six feet with his pistol. The other picks up a hat and holds it in his hand, and says "shoot it." The Lieutenant shot a hole in it. Later on the 2nd party puts the hat on his head and says, "Now try it." Then, at a distance of six feet, the Lt. in the first part takes careful aim at the very top of the hat and fires (there were witnesses) hitting his friend in the head. Friend may live, though. I am amazed by exact similarities. I am quite a good shot and accustomed to handle guns. I aimed carefully at distance of 6 feet for the very top of the glass. Do you know the story of Mike Fink? He'd been shooting shot glasses off the bar all afternoon. Finally a young friend of his put a shot glass on his head and Mike missed and killed the boy. The bartender did not believe it was an accident because Mike was known as a good shot. He got his own gun and shot Fink dead. (Another case in Durango, Mexico. Politico in whore house tried to shoot glass off whore's head. Killed her.) I mean there is something odd here. The Lt. saying just like me "But how could I miss at that distance?" I don't understand it. May yet attempt a story or some account of Joan's death. I suspect my reluctance is not all because I think it would be in bad taste to write about it. I think I am afraid. Not exactly to discover unconscious intent. It's more complex, more basic and more horrible, as if the brain drew the bullet toward it. Did I tell you Kells' dream the night of Joan's death? This was before he knew, of course. I was cooking something in a pot, and he asked what I was cooking and I said "Brains!" and opened the pot showing "what looked like a lot of white worms." I forgot to ask him how I looked, general atmosphere etc. To summarize, I pass along one of my specialized bits of wisdom like "always use poultry shears to cut offfingers": "Never participate in active or passive role in any shooting things off of, or near one, or knife throwing or anything similar and, if a bystander, always try to stop it." I told you of horrible, nightmare depression and anxiety I had that whole day, so that I asked myself continually: "What in God's name is the matter with me?" One more point. The idea of shooting a glass off her head had never entered my mind, consciously, until, out of the blue so far as I can recall—I was very drunk, of course —I said: "It's about time for our William Tell act . . . Put a glass on your head, Joan." Nothing led up to the idea. From then on I was concentrating on aiming for the very top of the glass. Note all these precautions as though I had to do it like the original William Tell. Why, instead of being so careful, not give up the idea? Why indeed? In my present state of mind I am afraid to go too deep into this matter.