Feelings of despair in the bookstore: too much unread, not enough life years to both produce and consume the desired amount of work, unable to do away completely with sleep. And at the same time—feelings of lightness and happiness on the street, in the freedom of movement and the expansiveness and time and possibility that unfolds like an accordion once its no longer crammed into a single human lifetime. On the streets I could wander all night, for days, weeks, years and never reach it or never tire, the flow of the earth passing underneath and the landscape of trees, buildings, cars, meadows mountains. So different than waking up in this apartment day after day, making coffee, and immediately being crushed by the weight of the things I need to do but am not sure I enjoy. Strange continuity of the days—the accomplishments happen in small bursts, the wasting of time happens in much larger ones.
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