December 2nd, 1981

9 days in the hospital: yesterday a scan was done on my lymph system to detect lesions or tumors. That was the last test. I expect my doctor will present me with a diagnosis perhaps today. How will he ever know the truth— that he is dealing with a young man who, at the age of 30, has lost the will to keep on keepin’ on? Allan called early this morning— under the pretext of seeing how I am. The fact is, they’re all wringing their hands at the agency as the work mounts. He begins a litany of new business. His voice drones through the telephone and I lie here and think “No, no, no,— I can’t go back to that job”.

Just what do you want to do Mr. Waite?

I don’t know. I give up. I just give up. I want to curl up in a ball and stop being.

Alcohol— my precious energy source has been taken away— and I begin to wither and die. Alcohol was the god that propelled and sustained me. The liquid fire that held my life together.

Like a character in a play— the actor has to understand the motivation of his character—

I do not see a plot-

there is no motivation—