January 2nd, 1980

The City of the Undead: 

Return to work after an eleven-day holiday at home. Subway filled with lifeless bureaucrats trudging to office jobs. “F” Street crowded with the dead and dying; street people wrapped in blankets, feet bound in rags– everyone looking crippled, deformed and retarded. I am on the verge of tears all day. “Stop whining,” I implore myself. “Shut up! Just shut up!”

I sit at my desk and devise a plot for paying my bills. Five months before I am out of debt. How many more months after that before I can save enough money to get out of this goddamned city?

I want out. I want to leave.

I practically run home from the subway– so anxious to be home and have Wendy and the dogs. I come home to a dark house in front of a glowing television. I got to the bathroom and the goddamed thing overflows. So this is home. I settle on the sofa in front of color television and begin to chain-smoke and suck cold beer. Hoping at least for narcotization.