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Aleister Crowley Diary Entry Friday, 15 February 1924
Venus.
12.30 a.m. Prostrate—exhausted—both dyspnea and coughing spells. All heroin gone—only hope in a little morphine yet left me, a far too small amount of ether (too small i.e. enough to make me drunk 6 times at least in normal circumstances, and in these all but useless), and in the strength of my will-to-live, but none whatever in the common-sense or humanity of men,
—And so—what of my J O B ?—lucky me to be at it “without lust of result”!
12.50 A.M. I wheeze painfully. I can’t even cough: it hurts too much, and doesn’t clear the chest.
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