I pace outside my open door, 2 a.m., lonely, and want to be alone. I hear the other roomers creep within their rooms, and I wait until they sleep. I want to play the piano like a lullaby, the piano of my solitude and pride, and so I play, but I’m afraid that I will wake them from their stupor. I play, but it’s not sad enough. It’s not rich enough with lingering need. I want to suffer, I want to mourn for my lost happiness, and for the man I could have been and thank God I’m not.
17 March 1979