Sunday 27 September 1998

Another Sunday, the day for... whatever. A good day to go to church, and listen to someone tell you what you should remember and what you should forget, rather than sitting in a bar listening to The Velvet Underground tell you what you remember and what you forget. I'm at The Hurst for breakfast, writing in my therapy notebook, and well, I feel kind of well-adjusted. I guess I'll just concentrate on eating, and looking around. Really, if all of life could be like that, looking around I mean, it would be okay. But all of life can't be all of anything—that's the trick. That's why you have to quit drinking, at the point that all of life becomes drinking. Which it will, after awhile, if you're so inclined. And I guess I'm so inclined—but, hell!