Long Winter afternoons spent absently staring at a blurring color television. Smoking cigarettes and listening to the noises of the city out the window. The telephone rings and I pretend to be interested in some small matter at the office. I am not. I am not interested in anything at all. Grey winter has descended into my heart and the trees are bare. I try to think of small projects that need to be done. I cannot muster whatever energy— real or contrived— necessary to lure me away from the warmth of the quilt thrown haphazardly across the sofa and the endless blur of the television.
December 7th, 1981
December 7th, 1981
December 7th, 1981
Long Winter afternoons spent absently staring at a blurring color television. Smoking cigarettes and listening to the noises of the city out the window. The telephone rings and I pretend to be interested in some small matter at the office. I am not. I am not interested in anything at all. Grey winter has descended into my heart and the trees are bare. I try to think of small projects that need to be done. I cannot muster whatever energy— real or contrived— necessary to lure me away from the warmth of the quilt thrown haphazardly across the sofa and the endless blur of the television.