Victor Kerlow Dear Diary:
Oh Hypnos, god of sleep, how have I so offended thee that the gate to your garden is closed? It is 3:30 a.m. and I finally cave and swallow a Valium. I stand in front of my living room window counting the cones of streetlights that run down West End Avenue like a strand of pearls on a velvet cloth. They merge going south and form a chain that narrows down to a thin yellow pencil line past 59th Street.
A tugboat puffs snub-nosed and self-important up the river. A window across the streetlights up. An old woman in loose braids and a blue flannel bathrobe stands holding a Kleenex to her mouth, crying. She suddenly stops and stares at me angry and ashamed, then snaps off the light.
I move to the couch and read two chapters of “The Glass Key†while I wait for my fix. The muscles of my back start to loosen; Hypnos is forgiving; the gate door slowly opens. I sigh, an addict’s guilt-ridden relief. My crumpled bed calls.
Read all recent entries and our updated submissions guidelines. Reach us via email diary@nytimes.com or follow @NYTMetro on Twitter using the hashtag #MetDiary.
