June 21, 1989.
I'm not at my best, and so it's dangerous to my reputation to be out tonight in latest twilight when the vampires are just getting up and I haven't had a beauty rest in centuries. Still, I've consumed so much coffee and nonsense I'm near ecstatic that the longest day of the year falls on a Wednesday and not only is it six days past my birthday but I'm 33 and pat on the back sure don't look it. Who could possibly want to? As if that's some kind of accomplishment beyond a combination of genetics and fear. And the earth has shifted once again today on its axis. All of which is to say it's a fine fine between anger and depression when I've gone from overeating to gorgeously starved in just one season in time for summer colors, though "free will" means there is no choice and I must daily force myself not just into satins but into black in a city too sophisticated for guilt and shame where death is an obsession and the panhandlers do crossword puzzles and street musicians play Mozart and "the exceptionally good looking" who once stepped off into Cadillac, Mercedes, stretch Lincoln, Bentley, Rolls, have met their sunset, yet I'm out, like I just ejaculated from a toaster, having come to loathe the sun which is the key to immortality if the visual reigns supreme and everyone's dying to be seen. Those with too many resentments simply explode. The Latin District streets clog with the usual Leftist litter, sidewalks with shorts, sunglasses, the smell of pomade, sewers with the beady-eyed scurry of plague. Still, what's left is most attractive to me, which means I'm horny, which is most dangerous these days, in this era of No One's Choosing.