Today: "traipsed" around Bugis/Little India nibbling things, followed by more nibbling in Isetan. Sank into Tempur mattress. Infinite, eternal bliss. Cleaned up room. Wondering where to proceed from specific point in time.
Yesterday: re-read Geertz and the Balinese cockfight, read something by Mary Douglas, ran in the dark. Ate toasted walnut bread and cheap ice cream. Blood orange and springs of rosemary dancing in the water.
Tomorrow: a mysterious haze that smells like pizza and old pencils. First thing in the morning: will perhaps wish for the uninvention of time-stamped instant messaging systems, while sleepy-eyed and forgetful.
Thinking of material towards a paper titled (provisionally) Abject S[h]elves. Not quite knowing where line of thinking will bring me — to some "starlit conclusion" (Wong) or some kind of dead end fleshed with image of dead Rosenburgs (Plath).
Can only think in fragments and in sentences without a clear subject. How pretentious can a person get/be/become??
Coherence is so overrated.
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