another note to self / 48hrs kind of entry. met with a colleague today who is very desperate, so desperate that he could not enjoy what is given to him. he couldn't hear a word I said. I was vaguely...flew and flew over the fields. She lost her golden feather in a faraway land. Bitter as it is, dear mother, for a lake to have no fish, so it is bitter, dear mother, to eat from a stranger’s table.

had a lengthy discussion with my beloved friend SB about the various artists with whom she has had affairs. their relations are intimately enmeshed in the nature of the work: an exclusive diet of only...want, want is sated. SB suggested that polyamoury is a practice that maintains the fantasy self. we also talked about spinoza's extended substance re block of ice, and the chassidus inherent to it