https://www.angelfire.com/art/letters/annex.html
writegirl@altavista.com
All Of My Angels Have Gone Home
R.A. Barrington
It is Wednesday, December 15th. I slept nearly the entire day, rising only to slurp a half-cup of tomato soup. Sadsickness has grabbed me again. I thought the parties; the concert last night would help. They didn’t.
I cannot paint.
I cannot write.
I tell secrets to a man who plays with radiation. He lives a life of deep depravity forgiven in the next confession. I have an email flirtation with a charming table-dancing featherman from across the Atlantic. On occasion I date a Hispanic man to cure my hatefulness. He is mean to me.
But don’t be confused. My sickness has nothing to do with any of them. This time of year grabs me by the throat. Sleep is my only weapon. I dream of torment and awaken wet and sad.
So please set the alarm for 7 a.m. on the morning of the 21st. I have 4-hour drive to a family Christmas party on the 22nd.
Until then…goodnight.
As to the parties: R.S.V.P. I will NOT attend.
P.S. I'm taking him 
with me!