August 24th, 1976
Again, all this time goes by without writing. Lots of energy, lots of action– yet I have avoided writing. To be very honest, the invasion of knowing that Richard reads my journal, as I know I read his, like a frantic lunatic– gells my feelings.
Desperate days. Days of no desperation at all.
Just days of desperate things– like walking home from the bus, lying on the sofa. Desperately.