These five weeks are an increasingly eerie reminder of what my childhood and my young adulthood life was like: first, the constant struggle against my own resisting self to alternate in an even remotely healthy fashion between sleeping and waking existence and, second, the near total absence of any desire for the dawning of the next day. I don’t want tomorrow. Apart from simply being my best friend, I think he did two things: he kept me apart from myself, and that had a soothing effect on the level of drama and violence of the inner war I’m caught up in as if it were my unavoidable fate, and he was a mediator between me and the outer world, which I really can’t handle in a (somewhat) sane manner without the crutch that is canineosophical philosophy. Everything, and every boundary, is broken down, shattered pieces falling into the abyss, where the only sound effect is a resounding cosmic meow.

To add to the misery — and this is a change compared to my past — many people are being terribly nice, and I feel bad about unanswered e-mails, my petulant inability to see the silver lining, my pathological lack of positivity, and so forth. I’m sorry.


(Forest road south of Stockholm, December 7. The plentiful pine trees here grow on sand; there’s sand everywhere, soft sand, light brown. In the vicinity is a natural spring frequented by colourful city hippies, displaced shamans and Indian spirits who spilled herbal tea on their maps and incarnated in the wrong place — supposedly, but I never saw them. I believe they hold seances in the night or something.)