Last night, I wrote in a fury until I forced myself to go to sleep, and the words didn't stop even then. I contemplated sitting in the basement and writing until dawn, but I couldn't bring myself to do it. Class beckons, after all.

Myself, I haven't showered in two days. I've been moving frantically between commitments with brief interludes of consoling Ashley, getting depressed, getting tired, and failing to convince myself to sleep. Ashley hung up fifteen minutes ago and I still haven't gotten out of bed.

The pressure is starting to get to me. Are things ever going to get better for her, to the point where we can be happy again? That sounds like I'm blaming her -- I'm not -- but it doesn't feel like this is working.

Seymour Glass, indeed.