Another day of feeling ill, although less washed out than before. Was solitary today, sneaking out early to buy some food rather than gnaw at my own flesh for nourishment. Other than that spoke to one or two people on the phone and received a couple of texts.

In between sleeps, I have been working on a poem for the first time in ages. Really enjoying writing it. It's about Dick and Joan's farm in Ontario and is a compensation for my photos only being in black and white. It is a kind of colour sketch really. And I'm writing it just for the fact that thinking about a sunny day on a farm is better than thinking about feeling rough listening to heavy rain in London.

Otherwise I read some of Mary Oliver's poems in her New and Selected Poems. These were leant to me by Tracey. Not sure what to make of them yet, although I already approve of the fact she is a nature poet and has appeared to have damned the torpedoes and written what she had to write.

Also read some of a version of the Gilgamesh epic in a verse version by David Ferry. Enjoyed this so far too. Muscular stuff.

Reading and playing dratted tetris (which I have discovered a week or so ago and am now addicted to) are keeping at frustration at bay. I hate being ill, and being ill on your own is doubly boring. Spoke to estate agents in Brighton, and will creak off there tomorrow to have another session of looking for somewhere to live. I'd like to be able to sort this out quickly. The idea of having no fixed abode in a month is not an appealing one.