Loooow- that I wouldn't say bou to a gooose is my problem. And i like to lie on my side in the rain. Back home, the time now punctuated - six weeks and nothing. Seeds, indeed spermata of life, but as yet neither flower nor fruit. It must be possible to take one's existence for one's own. To live in the facts, and accept them while also trying to change them. There are two things: one should propel oneself forward, but one must also heed the now. That I am aphorismenos eis dusangelion emautou, that outis me russetai from the circle of self, and that tho tuche it may happen that there be a time when all slathers out, joyful into a moment; it may also not, and lonely I'll grow lonelier, older and decrepiter; this is a fact. It is however my fact. No. Sartre. No. The self is an illusion.
But we are trapped. Our facticities overwhelm. Who will release me from the bullshit of the thoughts these?