What to write if all "the old things" are hardly digested? My tummy is warm. I think of R. Strange, I think of her the day in that she might possibly have turned around from me.

(The same procedure as every two years... [That is the time of an average relationship with me, so it seems])

Today, I hardly feel like writing. Feelings are thick, like fluid. Creativity needs to be aligned, settled down. The water is clear after the sand has sunk.

Things get more logical in the purest ease of intution, the mental grasp of the over-absolute truth of love; grasping something without love does now know what it missed previously...