Then he stopped and curled himself up into a small, tight ball.
When I picked him up, he made no attempt to uncurl, but remained in that state much like a catatonic stupor.
When I moved his head or limbs, they stayed like wax.
I put him back into his cage and watched him until the stupor wore off and he began to move around normally.
What eludes me is the reason for his regression—is it a special case? An isolated reaction?
Or is there some general principle of failure basic to the whole procedure?
I've got to work out the rule. If I can find that out, and if it adds even one jot of information
to whatever else has been discovered about mental retardation and the possibility of helping others like myself, I will be satisfied.
Whatever happens to me, I will have lived a thousand normal lives by what I might add to others not yet born. That's enough.
July 31 — I'm on the edge of it. I sense it. They all think I'm killing myself at this pace,
but what they don't understand is that I'm living at a peak of clarity and beauty I never knew existed. Every part of me is attuned to the work.
I soak it up into my pores during the day, and at night—in the moments before I pass off into sleep—ideas explode into my head like fireworks.
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