November 7th. 1997

	Ah, the vicarious life. . My days blur together because of their similarity, the same tasks are performed at the same times, the same lessons scheduled for the same days. The winter is slipping into my blood and slowing its course...I lose track of the hours in between. Meanwhile, the lives of friends take on an altogether surreal tone. Hungry veins in her arms, pounding veins on his temples, handcuffs on her pristine wrists, the Taj Mahal (enough said), a magnum of Merlot as her "partner", and the prodigal son goes home. . Me? I take it all in, try to help, when help is requested, and marvel at how very quiet my life has become. The din of the bacchanal doesn't seem to attract me anymore; the opera gloves languish with the latex stockings and I wonder if I will ever feel like drawing that much attention again. The cloak of invisibility seems to suit this mood much better. . Life as a contact sport; with me...up in the nosebleed section...spectating.
	SMQ1997

or perhaps...