Exhaustion sets in— depression and anxiety prowl like wolves through the shadows around my campfire. There’s no hot water in the apartment. My episode with Mr. Cunningham at the opera Friday night looms like a Lana Turner movie in my life and I am torn by excitement at meeting the Man of My Dreams and pissed by its tragic plot and wonder if there’s not some horribly basic connection. The drama of hopeless love. I want to drink gin and smoke cigarettes and play sad songs. That is my old alcoholic self that I thought was gone.