I wake up from the afternoon nap. I fell asleep on the Rosa Luxenburg analysis. It doesn't matter. I'll read it tomorrow. It's raining, at last. I stand outside my ugly black & white house in which I've lived forever and there's a strong smell of gasoline in the air. A pizza box is lying on the asphalt. Parked cars are scattered all over the place, some of which I recognize, some of which I don't. I feel the gentle rain. I have a strong lynchian sense of how wonderful things are sometimes, for no particular reason. I go inside, I treat myself with frozen pizza and a bad movie (Billy Wilder's Sunset blvd. - famous, not so good, a bit sexist, but all in all quite entertaining if you're into film noir.) I listen to Blind Willie Johnson & things are a-OK.