High Anxiety
October, 1985
For three months now, I've needed shoes. The collars and cuffs of my dress shirts are frayed. I should buy a new suit. But I do nothing. I make notes to myself, marking shoes and shirts and suit on my calendar, with little arrows pointing to them for emphasis. I cut clothing and shoe ads out of the newspaper and tear pages from magazines. Still, I do nothing. I walk the streets on soles so thin I can tell you the date on a dime. I wear shirts that make me look like a failed lyric poet. I appear...
