I’ve gone through a pack and a half of cigarettes today. It is now six in the morning and I still continue to write as if morning is still night. My stomach feels empty but the thought of food disgusts me. I am tempted to smoke another bowl and my fresh beer has barely been touched as I sit here thinking about taking a trip to the bathroom. The cigarette between my fingers is burning fast and the ashtray lies just within reach. My face is pale, eyes red, but sleep is not desired. It has been months since creativity and inspiration have possessed my lazy mind, and finished pages have proven that there is a reason for chemical products. My book is halfway through and the night is still young.
March 7, 1998