The problem with this job is that I am incable of accomplishing anything here. I have an essay on my computer that I very much want to work on, but the atmosphere is somehow incorrect, and I am only in the habit of writing political theory while seated at a desk facing a window in my room. It is also unclear if I can possibly make any additions to this infernal daylog without being at work and totally distressed.

What is there to report? My life no longer admits explanation, or even reiteration. Everything changes so quickly, seeming to have nothing to do with external reality: I approach the sort of mentality in which David Hume does not seem quite so ridiculous.

Listening to Tribalistas, which is Arnaldo Antunes, Carlinhos Brown, and Marisa Monte. The first pop music I’ve enjoyed in, well, years. Brazilians can still write love songs, thank God, without that poisonous irony that makes even “reality TV” both necessary and a total joke to anyone who thinks about it. Or so it seems to someone with a vocabulary of about a thousand words.