Thursday, October 16, 1997
Dear Nova,
Time has begun to drag. The waking days themselves seem like a bad dream. I’m tired and irritable, and my nerves feel like a thousand tiny frayed live wires. I know my mood must radiate off me like an odor that takes over the whole room.
The function of sleep no longer serves any of its intended purposes of rest and repair. Instead, I can only think of it as some sort of aperture I wait all day to slip through, hoping that by night I can step into some other place that will offer me more answers than the one I’m in now. Just maybe, I think, I’ll awake with some new idea—some new information—that I didn’t have before I closed my eyes. Day after day, I catch myself believing in this fantasy, my irrational hopefulness for this possibility propelling me
