Found on the last page of a used copy of Paul Auster's New York Trilogy purchased on a street before seeing Jarvis Cocker at a place that used to be North Six, but isn't exactly North Six anymore in what I believe was July of 2008:
Now it's about 10 to 1, and I'm sitting here pulling threads from the old family room valances- taking them apart to make napkins-wondering why I would spend so much time on something that I could easily buy, and that I may never get around to actually making anyway. This is the 3rd one. I pulled the other two apart during the day when I really should have been doing something else. Now it's really just a distraction-I've spent most of the time since I finished this book worrying. I left the back door open today when we ran errands before dinner and I've been possessed with the thought of how easy it would be for someone to walk in and find a place to hide in this house. Sometimes I'm convinced that I should have lived my life single in a studio apt. with a cat. So paranoid, imagining endless possibilities for catastrophe. Awhile ago I was wishing I was wishing I knew someone on the west coast I could call and talk to. Art's out of town, of course, but in NY-he's snoring away, and I should be taking advantage of the silence. Instead, I'm listening to the radio. They play the Talking Heads song 'Life During Wartime' a lot on this station-maybe because it mentions Detroit. I'm going to finish my thread pulling and hope to sleep. I read about Graham Greene writing in his books in an article in the New Yorker-sounds like a good idea to me, since I'd never keep a real journal. Of course, I'll have to be careful now about which books to get rid of. This one is a keeper-sufficiently interesting and baffling.