Flat on my back for much of the last few days. Not much different from the past few weeks. My energy began to decline (stress) around 2009, and it’s been a gradual straight-line depreciation since then.

Tomorrow is the gawdawful NYC Marathon, the weekend joggers’ festival, and I am glad I am not a part of it. I heard the pre-mara 5k going on outside my window this morning, but didn’t have the interest or energy to follow the progress.

I am now like those people I knew in Paris, who were wondering or supercilious about my doing marathons in Paris and elsewhere. They tried to ignore the whole thing, regarded distance running as a passion for autistes and eccentrics. Of course this might simply have been a dismissal of enthusiasms they did not hold. Which is okay.

Had lunch with Bobo and his friend Frank the other day, at Pershing Sq (my suggestion). Bobo has a compulsion to manage and product, and he seems to think that this Chatham Ghost story has great publication possibilities. Yes, it does, if I get my drawing-board set up, and I really do work on it.

Bobo had a brain tumor a couple of years ago but it hasn’t affected him. He looks the same as always. Oh, he says, he has trouble with memory, with reaching for the right word.

I must revise my CV, shop it around through him and all the online sites, bother the temp agencies every day. Pretty much skint these days. Would be hopelessly enfeebled by desperation if I weren’t usually stewed.

M and I went through yet another bout of Breaking Bad in the past week, now are dipping into Beirut and The Romanoffs.

I have a lot of half-written pieces for ST and CC. These things pay so little, and I end up spending a day or two earning pin money, when if I had a real job I’d make more than that in an hour, forty hours a week.

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