Written 2018
I’ve been working hard labor this week.
Like an inmate cracking rocks.
Every night I returned to the small house of the Greenwich estate and chase down three aspirins with a little vodka. My body was as weak as Superman encased in a igloo of kryptonite and I wish I could spent the day in bed, but I have a horde to feed and I wake in the morning telling myself, “This doesn’t look anything like Christmas.”
Tomorrow I return to New York.
A holiday party.
dance and drink.
I’ll be better tomorrow.