My problem is that all things are increasingly interesting to me

For me, the melancholy of the late XXth Century is walking late at night by the Mont Blanc pen store and seeing these things always strike me as simulacra of luxury items. They seem like fakes.

Stand high long enough and your lightning will come.

Naps are essential to my process. Not dreams, but that state adjacent to sleep, the mind on waking.

I'm embarrassed if I think anyone knows exactly what I paid for something, or even where I got it. I want what I'm wearing to feel good on, wear well, and to be extremely functional.

To some extent I'm guilty of wishful thinking. The absence of the interstitial I find unbearable.

The written word still enjoyed a certain prestige here. It was a sluggish country.