This is your banal phase. This is your banal affair. It’s a normie affair. A normcore affair. Before you meet some European. Some Italian, or whatever. Some fellow philosopher. Some continentalist.
And in the meantime: this. In the meantime … It’s always the meantime. It doesn’t get beyond the meantime. Here we are, in the middle of the meantime. In the middle of the day. And all the days are the same. And we’re just the same.
And we’re wearing through time. We’ve worn thought time. We can see right through it.
To what? What’s on the other side?
I don’t know. More of the same, probably.
Our atoms are growing farther apart. We’re less dense. We’re less ourselves. We’re porous … We’re merging into the afternoon. It’s entering into us. Saturating us.
We’re, like, wise with the afternoon. Vast with the afternoon. We’re dispersing. We’ll blow away …
Afternoon amnesia. Afternoon oblivion. Is it possible just to forget … everything? Except you, maybe.
We’re afternoon-drunk. Drunk on the afternoon. On the white, white sky. On all those clouds, where a blue sky’s supposed to be. Where God’s supposed to be.
Pallid daylight without depth … Where nothing’s revealed. Where everything is as it was. Where banality’s banality and nothing else.
Falling through the afternoon. Is that what we’re doing? Falling, just falling. Unanchored. No … responsibilities. Nothing to do, except … this. And what is this?
What’s love, anyway? We’re just contemplating love. We’re holding it at a distance, and looking at it. We’re far from love, just like we’re far from everything …
Something’s taking place through us. Despite us, almost. Against us. Something that’s not ours. Some kind of event – or non-event. Something that’s not happening. That’s subtracting happening from happening. What the fuck am I saying? What is this room doing to me?
The world’s still, isn’t it? Nothing’s moving. The clouds aren’t moving. Just unbroken white. There’s no wind. Nothing I can see, anyway. There aren’t even any birds. Where have the birds gone? Where has everything gone? Where have we gone?
Your flat’s adrift in the sky. Like in Wizard of Oz. We’re just floating through the sky. There’s nothing but whiteness.
I feel so vague. Do you feel vague? Are we supposed to feel like this? Like, we can’t think anything. Anything clear, anyway. Anything precise … We’ve been disarmed. We’re out of service. We’re not needed. We’re surplus to requirements. We were ordered by mistake, or whatever … And now what? What are we supposed to do? Just be, I think. Just float.
If I feel asleep now, what would happen? If I feel asleep and woke up and fell asleep and just … lived here, what then?
Would you like to live here?
Right now, I would. Right now …
I can’t even finish a sentence. It’s being drunk without being drunk. It’s getting lost when you’re trying to finish a … sentence … You don’t know where it’s going to end. Fuck, I can’t think a single clear thing …
I’m tired of being lost. I want to be found. I want to see God looking down at me through the skylight. God’s great eye. Wouldn’t that be something?
I feel like I’m falling. When I close my eyes, I get vertigo … Why do I come out here? Why do I feel these things? Does this flat do this to everyone? It’s like you’ve cast some spell over me. No – it’s like a spell’s been cast over both of us. Here at the coast.
I want to shout. I want to be heard.
Who by? I hear you.
Not by you. But by … God.
I want to shout something, just to show I can. Just to be able to. Just to be able to do anything. I don’t want to just give everything up. I don’t want to surrender. I don’t want to yield to this.
I feel so fucked. God, how will I ever get up? How will I ever do anything again?
I want to get dressed and go. I want to drive off. I want to go to the gym … Anything except this. But I like this …
You’re not going to save me. You’re not going to break my fall. You’re not going to do anything.
You don’t need saving.
What do I need? What do I want? What am I doing here? What’s anything? Why anything?
I don’t know what I used to know. And what I know now … isn’t good for anything. And I’m not good for anything. And nor are you, but you know that.
Are we meditating, or something? Are we praying or something? And to who? Who’s listening? Who’s watching?
The day will never end. It’ll never be over. It’ll just go on forever. This moment is, like, a forever moment. Now what? What next? It's not like it’s going anywhere. It’s not like it has a direction.
Work in Progress 