I've never been so despondent. The tiniest task takes all day, if I do it at all. I can't remember stinking so strongly of atrophy. This isn't me. This is not all I'm worth and not what I'll be remembered for, if at all. It's all about money. How vulgar. How pointless and ephemeral. How human. I sat in Tavistock Square talking to Romana, chain-smoking because each cigarette meant five minutes not "working" and looking at people around me. How do they do it? How do they just fit in like that? It's the closest I've come to envying them.