Frustration grows with every breath I inhale. I can handle no more than what I already have. Monotone speech inhabits me tricking emotions into nudity one last time. I think I’m feeling sick to my stomach and these turns are following a circle. Do what must be done for this actress has to be known and I’m tired of rehearsal. Words remembered as reruns, actions are perfected, and looks that appear to be practiced are thrown upon me in a manner that cries out for attention. We are on our way and I’m feeling thirsty. Maybe tomorrow will be better.
January 29, 1998