I'm afraid the text will grow old. It's this battle between life and writing. Less life needs to happen for writing to happen. What do I have to say, whatever I have to say needs to be said every day. I keep being disappointed by language. You worry about the paint on the wall. I've come to a point when writing and reading seem so intertwined. I'm nervous because I've hit a dead spot and all I want is to go back to that first day. Thoughts were flowing so seamlessly. Maybe I'm not so much of a multitasker as I've assumed. There is too many question marks in the air, too much getting through the week. It's probably about being interrupted, the balance you spoke of yesterday. Maybe I should read some Jackie Wang. Maybe I should sleep. Best writing happens out of the dream. You wake up suspicious of what presents itself in front of your eyes, you wake up out of a memory of something opaque to others. Is art the place of suspicion towards the real? You're lucky to have them in your life. You're lucky to talk nonsense, to discuss dreams, to make things that don't matter or matter only to friends. Struggling to listen a classicist, you yarn for history but can't stand hierarchy. What will survive of us? Perhaps the question is wrong. How will you be read? How will your story change. It's an era where we're writing all the time, we have transformed into text. We exist on all these planes, all these interfaces are just mirrors, so often and so horrible reflections of greedy souls. This want, this spacious desire swells with time, it's already too heavy but we keep on adding to the pile. Sometime I place my body under this pile, I look underneath and see fragile faces, see grimaces and.... old stuff like the bible which is books which is a city which is a plant which is all just trading, moving things around, movement - (speaking) images - morality - divinity - interpretation - translation - tracing that is etymology - symbols - dreams (always) - memory and history but together not separately and just a cherry on top which is that paragraphs are emotional so paragraphs and emotions.