The wind is taking the world apart today. The light is different, the air is cleared, the ordinary solid things of my existence are possessed. I have no desire to work and I consider that if the world is going to end I am really on the wrong side of it. But I have gotten a strange optimism stuck in my eyeballs or my heart or some other organ. The world will not end, and the general posturing and callousness of ten months begins to fly poorly in the face of the time scales I want to deal with. O que será, será, the little bird says: change from its usual whispering.

I must go outside now.