Hung over. I’m up but I’m down in bed for at least three hours napping, waking up checking Instagram among news and about three and a half minutes of hard pornography, back in for another nap while considering a run or at least meditating. These thoughts enter my mind:
Beds are wonderful planets of laziness.
Alcohol sometimes stimulates my capacity to let go of all expectation, which then fuels my creative capacity.
I could feel bad or guilty, but honestly I’ve just resigned to playing a bit of piano and finishing The Corrections by Jonathan Franzen and if that’s all I achieve today, relaxed on a Monday, life will be pretty good.
UPDATE: Went for a run and now I’m pooping, for a second time! On this toilet here I sometimes imagine sewer creatures crawling up through my wee sphincter. No thanks!