And so the days go. I have a headache. Reading V.S. Naipaul is making me cynical. There are too many sides to me, and none of them are real, especially sitting here like a perpetual armchair, brain fuzzy with inanities and fevered by a low-grade anxiety. I am so tired that everything has begun to seem the same. Malaise? Malaise.
5 months, 4 days
