One reason for the erratic behavior of most everyone last night could be seen rising over The Atlantic. It was one of those hopeless nights. Things are out of control and--if you are The Great Controller--you feel lost, totally lost and do things like staying out too long with the boys. I can't blame them; they are lost, too, and we know that life as we know it is ending. At the general staff meeting yesterday I could see the faces of doubt and doom; everyone knows that The Palace is about to go through a radical change, to what extent, we don't know. The main topic of conversation last night with the soon-to-be-gone 7th was what we who stay on will do during The Big One, hurricane that is. So many are leaving, though, that it seemed the question was rather moot. I was very drunk by the time we finalized the disaster plan for the hurricane but not one for the present situation which sinks hourly into a quagmire of despair. Ian's ill, KiKi's dying, and I am alone at La Casa for the next six months. I've been here before: the rooms are so big and so empty that you are afraid to come home, and when you do it's sad.