Woken by my daughter early this morning, unable to get back to sleep so I head downstairs to sit in the predawn dark, looking up from my book from time to time as little beads of shadow stream across the floor like dark mercury.
An hour or so later, I hear footfalls overhead.
They move through the laundry room to the back stairs. But they do not descend.
Later that morning, I ask my wife if she got up earlier. She did not.
[This is directly transcribed, without changes or edits, from a journal entry dated April 11th, 1994]
And it doesn’t get any better as the days go on.
Wasted time and uneasy sleep. Like Macbeth, I have murdered the deep life — drowned by days, and smothered under chemical work and answering machines.
[This is directly transcribed, without changes or edits, from a journal entry dated April 4th, 1994]
Ghost dreams. Windows that won’t stay closed. Doors opening onto nothing.
Tired and depressed, once again.