A little after four a.m. Woke about an hour ago. The tension in my neck is working down my spine. Who the hell am I kidding? Closure? When we walked into work, Hinckley said he thought it should be interesting to see how Julie behaves, assuming she'd read the letter. I told him, "I don't expect a thing." I have no satisfaction in being right. No more satisfaction than I got in declaring my feelings to her. No more satisfaction than any of this writing has given me. Of course, there was no overt indication that she'd read the letter. But she has. I could tell. She was very stiff around me, even seemed to avoid me--the same way I was around her. She finally said, "Hello, Dion," around the third or fourth time she'd passed me. Of course, I hadn't talked to her, either, till then. I got no desk time with her, and though there were a couple hours in the workroom with her, she had headphones on the entire time. What had I to say, anyway?
I'm sick. I'm sick of myself. I wish I were as mentally retarded as I am emotionally. I just can't cope. I can write, I can talk to people about it, but it's not what I want. I want Julie to talk to me. We've been over this, and I know it: Julie owes me nothing. I know the problem is mine to work out. I know a lot of goddamned things, but where has it gotten me? I'm not just boring my friends, I'm boring myself. The maze I'm in is just a circle--no entrance, no exit. Do I have any right to talk to Julie her about it? Nonononono! How many times do I have to say it? I can't move on. What is to move on to? The same empty....
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