Damn it. I hate these alternating periods of stunning genius and self-loathing destruction. I have to know everything and yet I am obsessed with archaic pleasures and the base passions of human emotion. It does comfort me to find solace in the recollection of great minds whose lives mine reflect, eg. Poe, Schroedinger, Russell and the like. But they are much more refined than perhaps I shall ever be, which makes my case seem all the more hopeless...