Airbending

In other writer's diaries it pleases me to read their confessions on why they haven't written in the past two, three days. Kafka has well written bad excuses. "7 February. Complete standstill. Unending torments." I sat on this table exactly eight hours ago. In the past two, three days, I've moved mountains with my airbender forehead. I've milked the world for pounds. After forty minutes waiting to be attended to at the Islington Police Station, I hit my head on the glass, a demonstration of animal unpredictable which however didn't lead to anything. I have walked an average of ten kilometres a day, fifteen just yesterday. Up and down with the wind pushing me through the streets, with no hat, in trustworthy boots, no one stepped on me. Oh, but yesterday he said: "I'll take this hat from you already and throw it in the water." It depressed me, which made me shrink and sleep surrendered. However still in time for the evening I woke up, went to the kitchen to dance. Now the blue candle's flame flickers in the bottle, my absent-friend's flat smells like jasmine, and the street is finally empty, two-thirty, when I finally begin. Visceral sources and a slimy plateau. What has begun: rain. I have only reported, even though I do not intend to shove my every report into this column. I had planned to write about visceralism in Mark Kozelek.