et bonsoir. 93.
My name is...well, as Foucault would say, "I write in order to efface my name...do not ask me who I am and do not ask me to stay the same."
I'm considering burning all of my journals. Of course I'd have to go through them again in order to revamp my metajournal, that fine work of beauty I made earlier this summer. I think this read-through, I'll emphasize anguish, despair, and depression rather than the odd bias towards positivity I had last.
I'm beginning to feel the task of reading as only always ever whispering into a void, as if I must work "without lust of result" to the point where I can only expect my words to fall on deaf ears.
"The unfettered man suffers neither pleasure nor pain," or something like that, is what the Dhammapada announced through my car's speakers on the way to the bank this morning.
I finally paid off the Regions portion of my Parisian debt. God, Europe's expenses have lasted nearly a month to rid myself of. Lovely place, and I'm definitely going back, but money...ack!
