WOW. What a spectacularly depressing day. Much more depressing than the 24th. To hell with what Dr. Arnall says. But it’s my own fault. I stopped taking my St. John’s Wort when I was in Florida, because you don’t have to worry about Seasonal Affective Disorder when it’s sunny and warm and wonderful out. But I started again today. I was gonna try life in Boston without it, because I’m really too lazy to be popping pills, but it’s just too depressing not to. It’s like The City of the Undead out there. But you know how zombies usually come out after dark? It was right around noon when I found myself in a train-full of ‘em. But, to be honest, I fit right in.

My favorite T-zombie of the day was the drunken bum in the big, puffy Eagles jacket. He was pretty pimped out, but then there’s this shrunken head sticking out of that big, puffy jacket, and on closer inspection there were a lot of bodily fluids all over it. He was ripe, the reek of malt liquor and stale smokes, but his essence was mixed with the scent of cold rain, so it wasn’t unbearable. He was just riding from station to station, looked like. He got on at Andrews, got off at Broadway. I saw him sit down on a bench and take out one of those handmade cigarettes–you know the ones. I call them Medley 100s. Because they’re made from the tobacco of hundreds of butts painstakingly gathered over hours, days, weeks, and all rolled into one.

Then there was this other T-zombie who wasn’t a bum, but was painstakingly dressed like one. I think he must have been a student. A fashion geek. He was worried his hair didn’t look greasy enough, and kept licking his palm and slicking it down.