19th January 2001 - 8:25 p.m.

And if you find a clue, I hope you find it soon -
Some people hold their breath forever.

As the afternoon's snowfall blows away and the chilled evening draws in, I feel my mood deteriorate and I begin to think about Distance.

Among sentences printed on the pages of an old notepad in the early hours:

"I want to be the OLD Nick again. The Nick who wandered lost through wastelands of bracken and star-crossed canvas and solitary settlements in the darkness, and didn't CARE that there was nobody for miles around. Who didn't just suspect that he might have taken the wrong path, an hour, a day, a month ago; who didn't have to bear the terrible weight of dead time between engagements. (...)

Oh, I could phone people, or type it out on irc, but what would be the point? (is there even a point?). All we have are words, and I'm DONE with words. And I'm done with this too."

After writing which, I almost singe my cheek with a lit cigarette, nodding off in a sad sleepy heap.