February 1, 1983: Another day with nothing to say. NY Times picture of Reagan at National Conference of Religious Broadcasters praying. “The man with his eyes open is the Secret Service agent”. The hand reaches, pauses, reaches, pauses, but does not grasp the subway pole. I did not read anything except the Times, and hence, again, my writing seems to suffer.

February 2, 1983: Ab’s birthday, ground hog didn’t see his shadow. Late night drinking with Steve. Tomorrow bleed, presentation, opera. Read a little wrote a little. Good thinking at prayer group. Good night. Thirty words a night and I call this writing?

February 3, 1983: It was the beginning of your typical New York romance. A weeknight opera, after a hectic day. Great discussion. Literature, scotch, subways. I reached the two gallon mark today. Violets, wither, get poisoned. Valentines day, like back in grammar school. Send lots of cards. Concern about keeping writing private.

February 4, 1983: Tired. These late nights are taking a toll on me. Climbing into bed to read and listen to music. Tom Hoeft goodbye lunch today. Lots of Sangria. The kind you lose track of how much you’ve had after your first couple sips. Image of yesterday: Manikin on bicycle.