The following is a work of fiction.

Not Nick Nolte's Diary, Malibu, California
April 22, 2005


Manolo was turning out the linens this morning and decided to dust the inside of the bedroom cabinets. I appluad his initiative but I'll sit on my hands for his timing. With all the drawers removed, Constance somehow found my brochure for the McDowell Colony buried beneath the pillow cases. It's been a well guarded secret of mine that I've always wanted to go. Almost as well guarded as the fact that I still think Close Encounters of the Third Kind is scary. I think I could get in there. I'm sure Sammy or Neil would write a good recommendation. But what would I do? I'm lying if I don't admit that it's sculpture, Diary. However, somehow the enterprise is embarassing to me; it's among my few inhibitions. The phone calls, Diary. I cannot avoid my agent any longer. I am sure he expects an answer on this remake of Capricorn One. I will try to surprise him. Peace.

[signed] Nick

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