Mr. Vernor in the apartment below never used to complain, but now he's always banging on the pipes or on the ceiling of his apartment
so that I hear the pounding beneath my feet. I ignored it at first, but last night he came up in his bathrobe.
We quarreled, and I slammed the door in his face.
An hour later he was back with a policeman who told me I couldn't play records that loudly at 4 A.M.
The smile on Vernor's face so enraged me that it was all I could do to keep from hitting him.
When they left I smashed all the records and the machine.
I've been kidding myself anyway. I don't really like that kind of music any more.
October 4 — Strangest therapy session I ever had. Strauss was upset. It was something he hadn't expected either.
What happened—I don't dare call it a memory—was a psychic experience or a hallucination.
I won't attempt to explain or interpret it, but will only record what happened.
I was touchy when I came into his office, but he pretended not to notice.
I lay down on the couch immediately, and he, as usual, took his seat to one side and a little behind me—just out of sight—
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