It is too warm outside. And inside, too. The fan sighs. Newspaper sheets disintegrate and are strewn all over. Picture frames lie empty. A candle rues over disfigurement. An old woman stares down from a high-rise apartment visible from the window of the room I am in. She cannot see me. I lie in discomfort, with my back haphazardly resting against a dwarf pillow stuffed with cotton at least thirty years old.
I think of art. Of domesticty. Of lamp designs. Of human body. Of desires and other bodily urges.
Some stories need to be told. I think of them all the time, constructing sentences in my mind but never putting them on paper. At least eighteen notebooks, bought over a period of three months, and many others bought earlier, reek of disuse. The pages of some have turned limp. My eyes are tired. I lie down using a copy of Cold Mountain as pillow. My necks hurts. I take it out and lie on my belly.
I look at my fingers. There are hangnails. I tear off some of them. It is painful.
I want to take a bath. May be have a cold beer. The water flowing from the overhead tank is hot. There is no beer, either. I badly want to read Tolstoy's The death of Ivan Ilyich.
But when do I write?