Heidegger proposes that mere anxiety is at the source of everything.

Jsem velmi spokojen.

I have been dreaming in stories all week. I wake up and instead of being left with images I am left with words being read out loud, and I am the person reading them, but I don’t know what I am going to say until I hear my head say it. So it feels really just like being told a story by yourself. Maybe I should stop reading so much and get out of the house.

“The thermodynamic depth of an object tells us that it has a history. Something happened to it that brought it out of a state it could maintain by itself, whether this state was trivial and motionless order or total chaos about which there was no more to be said than the temperature that characterized it…depth is a measure of how many surprises the object has been subjected to in its history. Depth shows that something has interacted with the world. It has changed, but it is still itself; out of balance, but not out of itself. It has known surprises in its time. But it is still here. It has marked the world, and the world has marked it.” (Tor Norretranders, The User Illusion)

The tiger lilies my landlord planted are folding up outside my apartment door. Lilies, it turns out, have far more DNA than human beings. Here are pictures of them earlier in the year. Wasn’t Tiger Lily the name of a character in something?

After all, like the queen said, it’s a poor sort of memory that only works backwards.

As if you could kill time, without injuring eternity.
I miss Walden pond!

a lie=the negation of passion

Those who restrain desire, do so because theirs is weak enough to be restrained.

“In her trembling hand she took the new born terror, howling.”

*** tends to react against political disorder because he is concerned with the deep basic religious experience, the deepest sources of life; transient politics are insignificant to him… Joachim Wach

“So far as you are concerned ‘life’ is a verb of two voices, active, to do, and passive, to dream. Others believe doing to be only a kind of dreaming. Still others have discovered (in a mirror surrounded with mirrors) something harder than silence but softer than falling: the third voice of ‘life’ which believes itself and which cannot mean because it is.” from the play him by e.e. cummings