"The highest philosophical vision is possible only to one with the temperament of a lover" - Plato.

Therefore, I need to have more sex. I am far too discerning, and I mix with men that are too old for me, yet those nearer to my age just seem to ... easy. I can't seem to be able to find someone who'll just attach themselves to me momentarily and then drift away, leaving a soft, sepia-tinged memory and perhaps some smudges on my sheets. They never let go, never. And they all seem to think they have some kind of effect on me, like they're a milestone in my life, imprinting their thoughts and emotions into my brain, pacing the room and occasionally jabbing my lips with a wet and obligatory kiss, pontificating on matters I don't particularly care for; offering nothing new. They call themselves artists, but they are just existing. I have only contempt for them, and show them only illusions of myself. What fools they are, placing value on wisps of smoke, treasuring a mere shadow of a person.

Josh is so funny. He is normally so intelligent and arrogant, but after only one joint, he stares intently at the sea-shells on my wall, and exclaims, "Do you think that if we went under the sea, and into a star fish's house, it would have little humans on its wall?". I'm sure this won't be as funny in the morning, but I laughed so hard I choked.

This state is so precious to me, and I don't know why. It is sad that it is only at these times that I am happy, that I can look around and find things interesting, people funny, objects significant. It is like being in love, in a way. People hold grass in contempt, regarding it as a thin escape for weak and unproductive people, but I feel it offers so many possibilities. One is in one's element, eyes unclouded, tongue unrestricted, recognising the grandiose osmosis in every word, every breath. Without it, I couldn't understand Bertrand Russell, Aristotle, Plato, Henri Bergson. In this state, I feel nature is allowing me to get as near to the original itself as possible, to search deeply into its life, and so, by a kind of intellectual auscultation, to feel the throbbings of its soul: the ultimate philosophical empiricism.

A long, hot shower would be ideal at this moment.