Sunday, May 30, 1982
The sickness of apathy
It was another hot day. Grant came mid-afternoon just as I was finishing watering everything outside. We passed our time in predictable fashion, playing records and talking. Grant laughed as the Art Ensemble screeched and squawked, his red shiny face split by a yellow-tooth grin. We lounged in the front room in the sun, watching the tortoise (he kept calling it a “turtle”) and drinking cider. I felt quite light and eye-loose and Grant said he felt the same.
He stayed until nine-ish. Lee came round an hour or so before he left.
I didn't do any work again. The sickness of apathy. I’d better start thinking about Poly’s.