The air smells like a wood burning stove. Burly clouds around surround my house but I went on the chemical diet because I hate the weight I've gained-- so I stopped shaving, and was whisped away from drinks last night. I woke with such a horror that my voice was no longer there-- beds spun and bodies were buried in dreams that made me wish I weren't alive; so as not to see the horrible images anymore.

My life is a stream of horrible images. Terrifed to be alone for more than a few minutes. I miss the overnight job because I slept when I knew it was safe in the day.

There's a bottle of scotch whiskey somewhere in my closet, for the days when I don't feel much like living in the day or the real world. Where people smile and tell me how I will never have days like them. Their girlfriends are much too pretty, and their lives too fantastic for such a son of a nobody to pretend he's somebody.

Coke and coke and rum and more coke. I'm tired. I can't smell winter, so I'll pretend I'm back in philly, where nobody knew me. Nobody wanted to.