Today, I didn't read.

I also read relatively little, yesterday, after finishing The Great Gatsby.

I'm not sure if this is burnout, but I do feel somewhat listless. I tried watching Marty Supreme today and was disappointed; dropped it after some 30 minutes or so. I was liking the cinematography, but certain aspects of the movie just turned me off: the very early sex scene; the fact another sex scene seemed to be coming up; Marty being a total jackass. It upset me. I dropped it, and don't intend to pick it up again.

I keep looking forward to a time uncertain. It bears down on me and stumbles my walk, even when I'm going toward it. I feel it as a compass; letting go of this dream feels like letting go of my sense of direction and losing myself in the world; but it's weighing me down and stressing me out. Every time I feel a pang of hunger or my muscles ache, I think of a body I don't have; every time I read I think of a man I am not; every time I go to sleep early I think of a face I barely recognise. I think I'm becoming myself, but that would mean that, right now, I am someone else, so I must be shaping myself instead; moulding myself like clay into a shape more agreeable; striking before I cool down, before it's too late.

Anyway, I wore some grey wool trousers, today. My new suit should arrive tomorrow or the day after. Probably tomorrow, I'd say. I also bought another new suit, and that one should arrive next week. I'm particularly excited for this second one -- it's brown, just like I imagine my suits to be.

I'm performing the future; becoming the future.