I slept most of the day, knocked out by a cold. I probably dreamed a lot, because my sheets were, when I woke up, kneaded and undone between my legs. However, I have no recollection of it. Only the warmth of my skin could claim to have known voluptuous and greedy seas.
Outside, the storm, which accentuated the isolation effect. That’s it, that’s all. Tomorrow, it will be much better if I rely on the cold of my neighbor and friend (who obviously generously transmitted it to me).
Another friend, a doctor, of whom I lost track, told me that eighty percent of the diseases are psychosomatic in origin. I immediately thought of the Parisian publishing house’s refusal. No matter what you say, you write to be read, but above all to be loved. Most people are content, and rightly so, to be loved by their loved ones. I claim to be asking for more. The big sin of pride. It’s also part of my sky chart. I suffer, oh how much I “suffer” (note the quotation marks), from a nemesis of love. I always have the feeling of being excluded.
Today, it’s like that, locked in my sleep, excluded from life. I’m not in that much pain. I really just have a big man cold.