Argh. With one dumb keystroke I just lost today's entry, and I haven't been able to retrieve it. Alas it would have been another Nietchean masterpiece of exageration and self important pontificating, but now it's lost to the ether. But rather than kill myself, I'll go guzzle some medication and cough my evening prayers.
G'nite & sleep tight.
You are sick, sick I tell you. Of course, I'm being redundant since you already said that as you left to guzzle your "medication" and pronounce your evening prayers. Is this your fifth time praying today? Do you need the shreiking man in the tower to remind you to pray, or do you have your own internal man in the tower who tells you when it is time to orient your body to Heiligestadt Najaf?
ReplyDeleteOf course there is sick, and then there is sick... Chekhov was sick. Dostoevski professed to be sick, but he kicked off at a ripe old age after his famous rant at Pushkin square. God, the Tsar, Russian Soul, the usual superfluous utterances of people compensating for a lack of technology...
There is another kind of sick... Ivan talking with the Devil sick.
And the fatal keystroke that deleted last night's words: It is worth wondering whethere HST's last moments were preceded a similar keystroke and realization. RIP