Where to begin? Say nothing of these times. Nothing of the present situation we find ourselves in. That’s for certain. This will not be a diary. Nothing like Nausea, except perhaps for how bad my writing is. But then again, no, why not make it something of that ilk, something of Sartre’s blues and his encouragement for them to turn purple? It appears to me as though there should be some format to drag me through the morbidity of repetition. Some description of the room is probably necessary. A little detail from the day-to-day. And the governance of my waking mood — a pop culture field marshal of my being. Yes. Well, that’ll do for now.

We’ll begin tomorrow. No need to rush this thing.