We can produce beauty or nothing, nothing is harder but we make more and more of it, a vast emptiness inside and out, Totenraum, full of not quite things, moving- we do these things, are these things, it's funny. Anyway, fog of war settling over my brain, should have some delightful nightmares, maybe write you a poem about them. To be an animal is to suffer.

Sleepy, in kind of a bad mood, trying to imagine what it must be like to imagine one has a good enough idea of what's happening to decide on the deaths of thousands, millions- it's fucked up, don't really understand it.