It's like the universe wants me to write this filth.
Yesterday my book took on a nasty turn and I got scared of it, and today when I opened Daniil Kharms's Circus Shardam to read a poem (I read a poem every time I pee, just to squeeze some poetry into my reading) there is not a poem on the next page but a little story about a jittery pedophile geezer abducting little Lidochka and stripping her naked in his apartment before he was caught and "was whipped and put in prison, and little Lidochka was returned to her dad and mom."
Christ. This is the author whose poems I read as a little girl, always funny, always cheery, and he wrote about the dark side too. Good to know.
At the bottom of the story he said: "I wanted to write something filthy and I did. But I won't write more: it's too filthy."
I guess I have no choice. I don't want to write what I'm writing now, but it's fucking coming out of me like insistent diarrhea. Can't hold it back no matter what I do.