7 pm. Phoner.
"This is the time of night," she says, "when if I don’t have anything to do, I just go home and cry. I’m starving and there’s no food at home. There’s nothing to distract me."
"You like to go and go and go," I say, "because then you don’t have to think about your life. You’re so busy with work and with friends and with art and with dogs and with politics, you ward off your underlying depression. But if you were to go home now, you’d have nothing to distract yourself from the futility of your existence."