Kafka

It's like junk.  It's like crack.  You intend to stop, but you don't.  "I'm never doing this again."  But you do what you know, and as that '80s prophet said, nothing can compete with habit.

So I did the thing I do that I said I wouldn't do again.  Groundhog Day.  I got on the scooter. . . Cafe Strange.  I was awfully disappointed in myself.  There is no way I can explain it to you other than to say I am pitiful.

Time unravels.

I'll quit talking about it.

My mother comes into the room where I am writing.  She passes by again and again in the mornings once she is up.  She sits in a chair now and does her exercises.  It is her house.  She can do what she wants.  But I am uncomfortable writing with her sitting a few feet away and feel an angriness building in me at not being allowed even a little sort of privacy.  My tension grows.  It is unbearable.

Kafka.  My God, Kafka.