I sleep phenomenal lengths of time. 2AM to 1PM My dreams cascade into more dreams. A sign of definite depression. At first I liked the refuge, but I can’t stand wasting so much of the day, taking me further and further from writing and making me a bullshit artist.
James Spicer drinks too much has to stop his nightly excursions into my bedroom, otherwise I’ll leave his Park Slope apartment. Fletcher fears for my sexuality and alludes to James’ wanting me is the same as my wanting Ro, despite her unrequited love. In either case I hold no guilt or cast any blame on James or Ro. I wish I could speak with her to protect me from my somna addiction.
Work normalizes some of my days and if I write I will be accomplishing something.
The last two days I have done nothing.
What am I doing in New York?
Damned if I know now. This city owes me nothing and I am alone. A few months ago I wanted that, but solitude is a pathetic route to cut off my past, but I won’t return to Boston. I am here and should work on staying here, for as long as I need to be.
Only the acting lessons on Tuesday and Wednesday offer any importance in my life, but if things don’t work out here, then I do have an out. Nona has offered me a place in California. I need $500-600. I wish she had contacted me before I came here.