It's impossible to escape.
Three days and I can't think of anything else, even if I sort of don't, guilt comes crashing into me like a ton of bricks. No coherent thoughts or words. Just an irrepressable movement, shame, a desperation for amneisia.
Our postman had a heart attack.
Right on our doorstep.
I wasn't feeling guitly about George then.
I introduced her to a guy from the nineties and an ex-lady of the night who claimed to have known Dickens intimately. I left them to talk.
There were three points during that night when I didn't feel guilty about George.
I sit on the sofa ('Mitchell's Sofa') and breathe through my hands. I don't feel guilty for the times when I didn't feel guilty. Well, I do, but not for the right reasons.
I feel guilty because I don't think I should've tried to escape what I did. I don't feel guilty for the method I used. I feel guilty that there was a time when I didn't feel guilty. I don't feel guilty for what I was doing at that time.
I probably will when I see George. Because George has certain veiws on things. And I know I should agree with them.
When I see George I will feel guilty.
Facing George. That'll be a laugh.