Psychedelicatessen.

Samson is sending up a gigantic new shoot, in that weird too-bright color of baby plants, and the leaves are even starting to unravel off the stalk. Which is comforting, as before it looked like aggressive flora genitalia sticking up out of the moss. I am proud of the plant's progress, although it's not like I contributed anything to it besides semi-regular watering.

...And although I started writing this with the best of intentions, suddenly I am too sleepy to really want to continue. Things happened today, too -- I saw Slavoj Zizek wear yet another dirty t-shirt and talk about the future of capitalism, I heard Louis-Georges Tin talk about the construction of "heterosexuality", I ate more than one meal consisting of beans and tortillas. I rode a slow bus home, and passed some kind of crime scene, while an acquaintance sitting behind me said something about seeing a dead girl's body. I saw a picture of a misguided and angry middle-aged woman wearing a sunhat with teabags hanging off the brim.

All these things and more, and more. I'd like now to sleep, but then the dishes won't get done, or the laundry. Or the reading of various important things, the waking up by 6am, the going to teach something or other again, and so it goes. The week is over in two more days, and christ, how much haven't I done yet. I want to make a coccoon out of pillows and blankets and things that make me feel warm, and sleepy, and softly removed from time.

As a postscript, here's a goal I can get behind: