Looking at the books on my bedside table
I look at the books on my bedside table and think: what for? I would spend a pleasant while reading, but a pleasant while for what? And I am very tired, and unable to concentrate on anything. I returned to books after my attempts at self-imbecillisation failed, but living in non-imbecility had become equally impossible. I cannot do anything. It is an unliveable life. A kind of absolute reduction of one’s whole life to what is purely necessary, and necessary, really, for nothing.