It's one-fifty-two in the AM. I am having to stay up all night in order to get a line number at the boat dock at 5 AM, so that we can get off the island on Saturday. I've been trying to find a moment of solitude to sit and chill and write, but it's been impossible. I thought this was my chance. I thought everyone had gone to bed. They all said they were going to bed. Now Bruce has emerged from his room and has decided to sit 3 feet away from me and read a magazine. Go to bed, Bruce. Please please PLEASE go to bed. GO TO FUCKING BED BRUCE!!
Sara has come back downstairs. She's making tea. They are like zombies, I thought they were gone forever but they keep rising and sitting nearby and rustling paper and breathing and asking me for my last cigarette. WILL EVERYBODY PLEASE GO TO FUCKING BED????
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