Three, maybe four, times today already? Daydreaming about a cigarette, you know. How eminently reasonable it seems to gently pull a Winston from its pack, draw it past my nostrils a few times to enjoy the fragrance of unburnt tobacco, place it between my lips, take my lighter, and, concealing the whole marvelously sordid deed behind the screen of my left hand, light the end of that delivery device, and suck its smoke into my mouth where I let it waft out before the intake manifold of my nose. No more Ziggy Stardust sucking off into his mind, please. It's some sort of diabolical magnet. Grasp at the phantom object, look for the absent tool, miss the good tenth and forget the other bad nine. People don't quit because they know they can't. And will it help to recount what there is to regret and to count on what there might be to hope for? How much more pleasantly might I have passed this morning had I just allowed myself to revert to my old habit. Bah! Throw physick to the dogs! I'll none of it.