Calm, with an empty mind, it seems to me, with all its willpower. My days are like that: I have plans, expectations, some hopes. But it’s only Monday, and I don’t have a job to do. I would rather sleep, take a long luxurious vacation during which time is gold that is wasted by turning it into water.
The afternoon receives its snow. My desk is upside down since it is dead, gently motionless. I slumped to Die Legende vom Toten Soldaten (The Legend of the Dead Soldier), then let the accompaniment of my Concone slip away. Compared to the Weill, these melodies taste like a sugar bourgeois that could be heard in the stables along with Mozart’s melodies.
Everything is so bad in the world while everything is lived without a storm in the more than cozy comfort of my life. It is neither happiness nor anguish. It’s a little bit of all this to the point of having little hiccups and nausea.