I'm like a tenth-century Persian poet, sipping the nectar from the many flowers. Wine, women, song. Delicious.
Discipline is the key. I am not hanging with Zim anymore. He is too distracting. He leaves messages on my answering machine, taunting me. He says I have no guts. He whispers accusations that I am a "schoolboy." Fuck him.
Katie encourages me. She helps me focus. She is my muse.
And I have been spending time with that Esquire editor, Leon. I entertain him with stories about John and the various street people I hung with. He loves to laugh this guy. Laugh and sniff enormous volumes of cocaine. He's teaching me about vintage wines and fine brandies. He respects me as a writer.