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There are times when everything wearies us, including what we would normally find restful. I am at one of those points.
All day long I've worked as in a half-sleep, doing my sums the way things are done in dreams, writing left to right across my torpor. All day long I've felt life weighing on my eyes and against my temples. Sleep in my eyes. I refuse to look at the day to find out what it can offfer that might distract me. I refuse to look a the day, and with my shoulders hunched forward I ignore whether the sun is present or absent outside the subjectively sad street. I ignore everything, and my chest hurts. I've stopped working and I don't feel like budging. I
I examine the crossed out scribbles of concentration and distraction. A few sketches here and there, wherever. Confused sketches, instances of my signature... sketched by my absent-mindedness. I look at all this as if I'd never seen a blotter, like a fascinated bumpkin looking at some newfangled thing, while my entire brain lies idle behind the cerebral centers that control vision.
I feel more inner fatigue than will fit in me. And there's nothing I want, nothing I prefer, nothing to flee.
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