DIARY
Often, at work, I feel incredibly restless, and I want to make any excuse I can think of and excuse myself. The idea is to go home and write. I have the impression that time is running out; that distance, money, possessions, contact, friendship, talent, beauty, thought, and all other resources can be collapsed into just one: time. It is capital that expends itself automatically, so the best exploitation, always and moment to moment, is immediate.
There is a whole lot to do.
Too much to do.
There is far to much to do.
I’m listening to Cups (Beaucoup Fish) by Underworld and editing The Encyclopedia of Schizophrenia and Other Psychotic Disorders, which is probably why I’m writing this now…
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