bug

Little ugly passing notions seem to be my ouvre lately: just now the thought that arose was (I was gazing at my perennially unrecognizable visage in the mirror)

You are going to spend every day for the rest of your life boiling in confusion and desire.

This too hard. 10:36 and I don't have much to say. Each day is more or less what I expect. My world seems flat, dismally comprehensible, and far too full of me. I would like to be smaller, fill up less space in my personal universe. Be unobtrusive, a bug on the sill. It seems unfair: I feel bound to an idealistic mock-up of the world that I know I can't attain but desire painfully anyway. There is no fantasy to drive away the bitter taste that feeling leaves.

But sleep helps.

klik if you demand tedious explanations of every little thing.