So tired, just constant melancholia and thoughtlessness. "In my father's house..." even alone I still do not feel good or content. Harder to read, lack of motivation.

It's quite cold and I haven't spoken to many people lately. Perhaps I'm not real; others are, but you are transistional.

Nothing to write, the motiveless motions of assimilating and tormented society.

Like one of Ellis's characters, nothing within, only pointless motions and trivial words. The only phrases of meaning in ones without plausible context and repressed comprehension.

"

"It's been so long since last December"--Blind, Tv on the Radio.

" I want to go back."

"Back where?"

"I don't know."

"Hey I'm going I'll see you later."

"Okay."

" --Less Than Zero, Bret Easten Ellis.