I've been doing that thing again. You know-where you point to some random page in some random book and then that is your fate. What a little melodramatic fuck I have become. The reason why I even mention it is because we all know that you never really choose to acknowledge the 'truth' unless it fits with whatever ideal you have of yourself. So here I am, pointing, one eye cocked, trying to avoid the same page over and over again. 3 hits later, I'll accept it: I saw the days of the year stretching ahead like a series of bright, white boxes, and separating one box from another was sleep, like a black shade. Only for me, the long perspective of shades that set off one box from the next suddenly snapped up, and I could see day after day glaring ahead of me like white, broad, infinitely desolate avenue. It seemed so silly to wash one day when I would only have to wash again the next. It made me tired just to think of it. I wanted to do everything once and for all and be through with it. pg. 128