Friday, Jan. 17, 2003, 12:01 AM

The entry "B"

His carousing with Bacchus the night before had left him as unsteady as the Russian economy and with a decided list to the left. He was painfully aware of his head, but unsure of his feet, and the sounds of the night market had worked their way into his head and were clamoring to get out. He supposed an allusion to swimming would be apt for describing his current state, yet he felt closer to drowned. It wasn't last night's alcohol, or this morning's nausea producing this effect, it was his job. He loved his job; that was the problem.