I’m sitting in the living room. It’s dark. I haven’t turned on the lights on purpose. I like this, the dark room lighten up by the orange glows that come from the window. It’s good to rest. I’m tired, physically speaking. My back — can we say my higher back? — aches. Too much walking, too much standing. It was an afternoon full of movement. By the way, I’m well aware that I’m writing in English. I do this sometimes, in case you haven’t noticed yet. It’s just what you see, a way that I find to bring things out of me and into this, the blank page. Call it a way of singing, or just some kind of special cadence. It’s musical, in my head. I hear it as if it was a song, a declamation. Poets do this, often. I’m no poet, but you know that. I’m a guy that went to Marfa once. I would like to go back there one day. But I was thinking today, this day, on the subway — ay, ay, ay — that to live is to think about what you are doing, when you are doing it. Dream, sigh at will, but remember: there’s nothing better than the present, and the hope of the future. It doesn’t mean the past wasn’t good. The past might have been pretty supimpa. Anyhow. This is the present. This is me, writing. I wear a blue shirt bought in a market in Bangkok. Its brand is called Beso Beso. True story. I just re-checked it again. I’m drinking decaf. I’m listening to a show playing in the tv room about populism. It’s kind of a debate, although everyone seems to be agreeing with one another, so I don’t know how to call it. A conversation? People can disagree in conversations. Then what is it? A call for help? A call to arms? Or just superficial chitchat on the topic? I just know that it’s playing. The decaf is almost over. I’m finishing the reading of Universal Harvester, by John Darnielle. It’s a failed novel, but still interesting. He writes well, Darnielle. You feel for the characters, and you feel their loneliness, their muted existential despair, and their longing for something different. It might be good, or bad, but it’s something that it’s not there, in the moment the book starts. During the book, that “something” appears. And the characters still don’t know if it’s good or not. Maybe they just have to take it, and bear it. Darnielle calls this “resilience”, when speaking of a character that, as a little girl, lost her mom. One day she woke up and her mom wasn’t there. She left, and took the car with her. The plot is set part in Iowa and part in Omaha. I’ve been in both. Well, I cruised them both, by car. I did a podcast about it. I thought about writing a podcast about a guy that did a podcast and wants to do a new one. But it was just an idea that came to my mind while I was washing the dishes. I did it slowly, very slowly. No hurries. My back ached and I wanted to enjoy the mundanity of it all, in full. I shared an Arthur Russell song today; I felt like singing it now. Because of the song, because of the reason for sharing the song. I didn’t need to hum it. Just keep the song inside, where the warmth is. Yes. Just keep it warm, the song and the spirit. Maybe I should put my sweatshirt on. My nose is a little bit stuffy. Or maybe not. I’ll just keep the song inside, the warmth inside. And go off reading, and then sleeping, mutedly and calmly longing for y(in this moment, in this exact moment, I mistakenly hit the cup and spill the last third of the decaf on the table. It happens)