Losing the will to go on.

Cat escaped Saturday, has not come home yet. Probably dead.

Bridal show Sunday, at the convention centre, hungover. Wished I was dead, like cat.

Tonight at Sheridan, made shapeless molten blobs. Possibility of gaining fame and fortune as glasscrafter, dead.

Tomorrow, no plans. Just dead space on my calendar.

Only one ray of hope on the horizon.

Mehgan – sainted, lovely Mehgan – got me tickets to see dress rehearsal of Tosca this Wednesday. Operatic enactment of Tosca stabbing her amorous pursuer, then watching as her lover is shot, then throwing herself off a turret ought to slake my thirst for extinction. Must not sing along, though, or audience will want me dead.

“Vissi d’arte, vissi d’amore – non feci mai male ad anima viva. Con man furtiva, quante miseri connobi aiutai. Perche me ne remuneri cosi?”