I take my journal with me on the subway and write in it during breaks. It is actually a great alternative to the phone for subway writing, because, as I mentioned earlier, New York is stuck in the past thanks to the underground with its massive lack of cell service.

It feels good. Just a quick relief sprawled out in my handwriting, which I am torn about. It looks like a chimeric mix of a child’s and my dad’s. Strange not feeling like it’s going anywhere. I keep getting caught up on wondering how to fit the diary into the typewritten manuscript which is soon to come. Like, I guess I’ll just tear the pages out and place them in their chronologically appropriate places within the manuscript. I figure I’d better get a spiral notebook as things progress, to keep messiness to a minimum.

I utilize my real name, figuring that it doesn’t make a difference at this point being that the chances of someone reading it are slim. It will be an ultimate act of survival. My audience is already holding on by a thread. Give it, what, a year? Three months? I don’t think I could do it in three weeks. I don’t even have the machine yet. What has always spurred me on anyways? That instant gratification, and it will be gone. All I will have is my own willpower to keep me going, creating the masterpiece Lilli may dream of. Could she purchase it? Who will? Nobody? Some person in the future for millions? Is that the dream? A dead gift of estate. Something to save my wife and possibly non-existent posterity. A Van Gogh. That’s what I’m talking about, of course. But I’ve never cut off an ear, and I rarely get drunk in public, and I’ve never wrecked the walls of my apartment, however I did paint the cupboards here blue, and there was that time I left a Rabbit on the floor. I also once helped pour neon paint over lesbians in a hotel bathroom. So maybe I could get a couple thousand…


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