Some leaves reddening at the edges La fauve agonie des feuilles Keeping one here, suspended in its agony A bell in a bell jar won’t ring The terrifying freedom of knowing that nothing, from now on, will become a memory It took me a while to realize the hum was only inside my head Is a waveless noise still a sound? Nurse just filed my nails, blowing

When I say I think of all the things I haven’t done, what is the content of those thoughts, really?

Short selling is folding back time. The past making itself present in the future. Like a retrograde or a palindrome. D F♯ E A / A E F♯ D. A song played in reverse. But going against the mkt., everything is turned on its head: the more a stock is depreciated, the larger the profit, and vice versa. Every loss becomes a gain, every increase a drop.

Priest came with soggy offerings of comfort. God is the most uninteresting answer to the most interesting questions.

A good thing about my situation: there is no risk of being subjected to Paganini, Hummel, Berlioz, Paderewski, Quilter, Saint-Saëns, Tosti, Franck, Lindner, Offenbach, Elgar, Dubochet, Rachmaninoff ever again.

In books, music, art I’ve always looked for emotion + elegance.

A diarist is a monster: the writing hand and the reading eye are sourced from different bodies.

Can barely stand the violence of eating.

In passing, I once told A that our whole financial system relied on 4 people: the keyboard operators in charge of feeding all the quotes into the New York Stock Exchange ticker. It would take 1 of them to bring the whole market to its knees. Imagine, I said, if 1 of the 4 keyboard operators could be bribed to provide all the quotes before punching