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A morning


In the morning, sitting by a sheet of paper, I stare out the window. The section of the First Avenue I'm able to observe is pretty deserted. You can rarely see more than one passer-by at each stare.

This is where I get stuck and can't come up with anything else. I'd like to say something about my insane anxieties, but the 1st Avenue in its yellow section has no connection to my anxieties. If there's one passerby per stare, what's to cause anxiety?

My inner life has turned into an outward one a long time ago so that I no longer know what's inside it's probably that yellow section of the 1st Avenue with one sad passer-by on it, and my anxiety and the ever new morbid thoughts and sensations about Elena, about her body, about her fate and mine all this is on the outside and perhaps is lying in the window.

The machine-guns, the parachutes, and the canons of my future appear very easily as my past, and the execution of the Chicago Anarchists at the end of the 19th century in a Chicago prison has been burning ahead of me in the black sky for twelve years ahead, not behind. I read about it twelve years ago and, terrified, I recognized my own execution.

Meanwhile, it's already 11:00 a.m. The Bald Diva (I never fuck her in the morning) has gotten up and poked her head into my room greeted me. Greetings, Bald Diva, you're a good woman, you like to and knowhow to fuck; now you're going to the bathroom, and you'll occupy it for a long time. I know you, yes I do.



* * * | Diary of a Loser | * * *