Sometimes I wish I could just get rid of myself, get all that out of the way so I can think, so I can _get something done_ without, oh God, the weight of it, of all the stories my mind is in the middle of telling itself, none of them having yet reached a happy ending and several of them, I fear, written by Mr. Lovecraft. Maybe all of them.

But then I think of John Watson. John Watson Does What Needs to Be Done. John Watson does not allow himself to become so weighed down with the burden of Being Himself, of being, that he can't act. John Watson is overwhelmingly competent. And there are those stories, too, and I believe in them. I tell myself that: I believe in them like a religion, from L. relegere, "read again."

And I am John Watson. I have a bit of John Watson in me. And that means I will get out of bed and find some pants and have breakfast and do some homework, and tomorrow I will do the same, and soon I will be able to get out of here and be, perhaps, a little Sherlock. But here, it's pearls before swine, to be crushed. So John Watson, once more unto the breach, to lay his English body down to seal the gaps in me, not in walls the way we usually mean people have walls but walls the way we mean people have structure. Today I don't, and so John Watson will be my structure for me. No wonder Sherlock needs him.