The following is a work of fiction.

Not Nick Nolte's Diary, Malibu, California
July 20, 2005

Midtown

I didn't even tell Manolo, Diary. Only my travel agent knows I'm staying on in New York. I decided to seclude myself to put the finishing touches on my golf script. The traffic noise high above the street is a kind of music. I had been careful to pack that recording I made by accident of myself a few months ago. It's nothing really: just me walking around, singing a couple of Mott the Hoople songs and shuffling papers. I found when working on my story, it was relaxing to play the recording in the background, instead of music. I know, it sounds a too avant guarde. Speaking of which, I walked by a gallery that was showing high-speed photos of nuclear explosions. I considered one for the full bathroom in the guest wing. Bathroom art is tough; there are so many cultural pitfalls. I kept walking, Diary.