Gin. Gin-ing. All of that. Losing sight. Losing patience. Seul. Seulement seul. No certainty. No answers. What is she? It? I don't know. There was no one tonight. No one I could talk to. Steve hasn't responded to my email. I am disappointed. This is BAD SHIT and I am not doing well. I'll be a mess tomorrow after how big a mess I was today. I'm sorry, Ellen, that I wasn't better company, and I'm sorry, Holly, that I did not see you, though perhaps it was for the best, my friend.

Every waking was a trauma this morning. I shouldn't expect any less of micro-sleep. All of those years of deprivation, they add up. And now I have no one to write to, do I, Holly, my friend? Not that I should be surprised. And Monday? Will I tell Desdemona? Will I tell what seems to have fallen on deaf ears?

I am alone. There is no one who can save me from something that compromises my very mind, when I am asleep...