February 20, 2024

The ceiling epic ends, and my nerves return to torpor. Took the opportunity to re-arrange furniture and paintings. Some compact joy there.

The news causes me to contemplate the percentage of the world’s present anguish which could be extinguished by two bullets, one in the head of Putin, one in the head of Trump. What if you wake up one day realizing that the harm you cause exceeds the good by multiple multiples? Is one even capable of realizing that? Sociopathy is really the only explanation: one must be literally unaware of, or insanely indifferent to, the burden one puts upon history.