I will look back, I think. I have shown you as much as I have, or nearly, that I have kept from the days of my madness (both the greater and the lesser). I will, in lieu of the clips of texts from those times or the scans of scrawled drawings or scribblings, I will recollect. I will think back. I will imagine myself in those days that have passed when I seemed to myself not of this earth, when I was lost inside myself. I will make myself remember. I will do my best to bring back the sights, the smells, the auditory and the tactile, what it was like to be as I was: babbling to the walls, having visions, listening to the dead, deep in selfish mystery, mad.
Some of it, however little, I think I will not write of. I cannot imagine imparting to anyone — ever — some of the things I have imagined, or done, or imagined I have done. Some things, I believe, are best held between you and your confessor — whomever that may be to you. I think only saints have no secrets. Real secrets, I mean, those withheld from your dearest dearest.... But I will share much of the travels this soul has coursed, most all that I recall. And I think that if you read a goodly portion of what I impart, you may come to understand me in ways that one should understand another human being: seeing through his eyes when he looks into the mirror.
Lucy