Out of time.

DIARY

Often, at work, I feel incredibly restless, and I want to make any excuse I can think of and excuse myself. The idea is to go home and write. I have the impression that time is running out; that distance, money, possessions, contact, friendship, talent, beauty, thought, and all other resources can be collapsed into just one: time. It is capital that expends itself automatically, so the best exploitation, always and moment to moment, is immediate.

There is a whole lot to do.

Too much to do.

There is far to much to do.

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I'm listening to Cups (Beaucoup Fish) by Underworld and editing The Encyclopedia of Schizophrenia and Other Psychotic Disorders, which is probably why I'm writing this now...

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