Night drags its belly over the empty room. Y. does not come. Her absence claws under my skin; my body shivers in revolt. Solitude becomes a ruined altar. Desire festers, obscene and holy, and even pain tastes like the perverse nectar of being alive.

The Metaphysics of Refusal: On Bartleby Bartleby is the saint of refusal. His “I would prefer not to” is more corrosive than revolt, more honest than hope. By declining to act, he exposes the absurd machinery of purpose. In his negation, I hear the purest metaphysics of exhaustion.

Morning sinks into cloud like a thought unwilling to rise. Coffee darkens the hour; I drink its silence. Emmanuel Bove opens his humble wounds on the page. Between steam and sentences, I learn this: obscurity can be faithful, and waiting a form of courage.

Always the same: I tell myself 'no,' resisting with all my will—but inevitably, passion triumphs. And yet, perhaps that surrender was the true aim all along, the silent fulfillment hidden within the struggle itself.

I must defend myself from Y.’s voluptuous beauty, from the obscene innocence of her youth, from that voice whose sweetness humiliates me; yet this defense is already a lie, for if I do not consent to burn in the wound of my desire for her, then life itself becomes an indecent postponement.

We sat sealed in the café’s rancid smoke. N. flayed the blonde with his stare, narrating desire like a failed sacrifice. He muttered: she’ll sleep alone, never knowing the beautiful obscenity I’ll squander on her—the slit of her dress, an impossible wound where thought leaks and desire rots.

This morning, underground, half-light choking the air: a Japanese girl in a kimono. Withdrawn, fragile, a flower thrown among stones. She did not ask to be seen—yet she accused everything around her. A silent elegance, foreign, insolent, as if the East had paused to mock our decay.

Gloomy morning—its heaviness clings to me like a moral residue, faithful to my inner weather. And yet, a fissure: Y.’s return, the imminence of her presence. Desire tightens, finds its object, and in that brief coincidence—longing at last fulfilled—I feel both excess and undoing.

Still waiting. Not for an event, not for a sign—only for the habit of expectation to rot. Time hangs like damp laundry in an empty room. I stand in the antechamber of nothingness, a thin breath before the abyss yawns and calls this pause life.

It is still snowing. The world lies white, washed of meaning, quietly indifferent. Coffee with cardamom burns gently in my hands. I read without belief. Above me, a piano is struck nervously, like a wound. A Sunday idyll—fragile, ironic, almost obscene in its calm.

She curls up on the tram, a small act of defiance against the silence. Her body is shy, almost apologetic. I watch her furtively, as one would a relic that must not be touched. Her awkwardness permeates the air, creating a strange aura. Beauty is born where breath is held and fear still exists.

MADAM EDWARDA exposes holiness in obscenity: God appears where desire annihilates the self. Bataille insists that sovereignty is not purity but excess, where shame ignites revelation and eroticism becomes a thinking wound, tearing consciousness open to the impossible.

Masao Yamamoto’s photographs feel less like images than like memories exhumed. Small, worn, often stained, they breathe silence and impermanence. His practice turns photography into a ritual of touch, loss, and quiet devotion to the fleeting.

Ah, those moments when expectation rots and falls away. The world vomits chaos, lies, greed—I know its stench too well. I retreat, not to hope but to books: last shelters for the useless, the wounded, the ones who refuse to kneel.

A day nailed in ash. The sky lowers its leaden silence, clouds compact as an unspoken verdict. Cold walks beside me. Morning does not rise; it consents. What weighs above also inhabits me, a pact of gray between breath and horizon.

N. caresses her childhood like a relic: "I will relive it, one day". Thus hope embalms time. How durable a delusion can be when it soothes—people survive on lies the way invalids survive on morphine, mistaking consolation for truth.

Monday arrives without ceremony. No coffee, no cigarette: the day stands naked. My hands search for habits like lost keys. The street exhales damp patience. I move anyway, obedient, carrying a small, exact sadness that asks for nothing.

With B. in the café. He spoke again of the girl from the bookstore. He lowers his voice when he mentions her, as if she were present. He has never spoken to her. I watched his cup cool and thought how many lives are silently inhabited this way, without ever being entered.

In Yamanaka Yōko’s movie Desert of Namibia, the days move like tired feet. Nothing erupts; everything erodes. The heroine passes rooms and streets as if already absent, carrying a small, dull pain. The desert is not outside—it is the patience of living without reply.

The night did not sleep; it kept watch inside me. Dawn arrived bruised, carrying a pale oath. From the ash of insomnia, a sentence still stands: endure the dark so the light learns precision.

Morning stands stripped of excuses. The sun is not kind; it is exact. It names each thing without mercy and still allows it to live. In this clarity I feel both forgiven and accused, as if light itself were thinking through me.

I reread last year’s diary and am struck less by what I lived than by the scandal of having survived it. No great damage, no visible ruins. Existence spared me out of negligence, not mercy—a mercy too lazy to finish its work.

When you finally grasp that this world is a botched crime scene, run by clerks of decay, the urge to fix it becomes obscene. Why intervene in rot? Indifference is not cowardice but hygiene. I turn away—not defeated, but clean.

On New Year’s Eve I sat with friends in a small Viennese bar. Laughter moved around me, yet my eyes kept returning to a photograph by a Japanese photographer on the wall. Through it I drifted east, wondering how Tokyo breathed at that hour, wishing—quietly—that I could vanish and arrive there.

Read a thousand authors, drown in a sea of books—yet Platonov strikes like a fist to the gut, raw and unannounced. Nothing in all that literary chatter steels you for the cold, trembling life he drags across the page.

Van Gogh, as Artaud saw him, was not mad but robbed—plundered by doctors, morals, and the State. In that theft I recognize Stirner’s truth: society calls every sovereign self insane. To remain one’s own is the unforgivable crime; art is only the evidence left behind.

Artaud, his books, his cries disguised as texts—van Gogh, Rodez—were not lessons but seizures. In high school, while others borrowed minds, I claimed him for myself. He stood outside curricula and approval, a possession of my solitude, unrepeatable, answerable to no canon but my own hunger.

Retarn to Dostoevsky His book HOUSE OF THE DEAD is not redemption but an open wound. The prison breathes, sweats, rots. God is absent, man is naked. Suffering is not lesson but noise. Freedom survives only as insult, spat through bars, alive, obscene, a scream without witness, burning.

No film this year moved me like "A Girl Named Ann". It delighted and devastated in equal measure. This true story exposes a brutal truth: that parenthood is granted indiscriminately—and that this freedom can become a grave injustice, with consequences borne by the innocent.

Strange freedom that reminds the living of death. It is supposed to be the abyss in which one threatens to lose oneself. It always refers to powerlessness rather than the power to be oneself. In the face of freedom, the self disappears.

Balthus’ painting Thérèse Dreaming captures a suspended, intimate moment. The girl, absorbed in her thoughts, evokes both innocence and latent desire. The tilted pose and direct gaze unsettle the viewer, making us aware of our role in observing. Desire, tension, and ambiguity quietly coexist.

To love passionately someone unworthy is to perform alchemy: the intensity of your devotion, over time, reshapes them, bending their flaws, softening their edges, until they become, in the quiet miracle of persistence, someone capable of returning the love you so gave.

I read À REBORUS as one reads a confession written against hope. Karl-Joris Huismans circles decay with the patience of someone who no longer expects salvation. The book gnaws at itself, and I recognize in that movement my own fatigue with beginnings.

After speaking with N., I understood this much: irritation is a luxury we grant to beings who do not deserve even our contempt. Think long enough, and every face dissolves into insignificance. No one merits the effort of anger; annoyance presupposes a value the world stubbornly lacks.

I do not seek rational proofs for evil; it needs none. I recognize it as a constant companion of my kind, older than morals and wiser than excuses. History? A farce we replay willingly. As Hegel muttered, men learn nothing—and I, at least, make no idol of their amnesia.

Beware those who have found their God, their creed, their idea: certainty is a contagion. They will not rest until they have inoculated you with their fever. Refuse, and you become their heretic—then God, if He exists, must protect you from His believers.

Journalists preach truth like a profession of faith, yet live from distortion. They condemn lies with the enthusiasm of converts, while polishing their own. Between deadline and conscience, conscience is always late. Hypocrisy becomes objectivity once it’s printed.

The smell of morning coffee rises like a tired promise, warm yet already fading. It clings to the quiet air, reminding me that even small comforts are brief. I hold the cup, inhale its melancholy steam, and feel the day hesitate before beginning.

I love Aki Kaurismäki’s films because they carry that quiet, melancholic note where hope still whispers, even when it’s barely breathing. FALLING LEAVES felt like a gentle reminder that tenderness survives in the smallest, most fragile moments.

I adore this commercial hypocrisy: booksellers trumpeting “essential” reads on giant posters, as if standing among shelves granted literary clairvoyance. In this circus, ignorance wears a name tag and lectures us on taste.

A girl with a cello, wedged into the rancid human swamp of the subway. She clutched the instrument with that furious tenderness of someone shielding a dying god. In that sick parade of the living, she struck me as the last priestess wandering through a world already forfeited.

N. whines that the world is terrible. I tell him it’s almost a miracle it isn’t far worse, given the degenerate parade of crooks and moral amputees steering this sinking circus. Expecting dignity from such creatures is the purest form of optimism — or madness.

Reading E. M. Cioran A SHORT HISTORY OF DeCAY feels like touching the cold bone of existence itself. His pages bruise you softly, with elegance and despair intertwined. You emerge stripped, clarified, as if someone whispered the truth you always feared to name.

Kafka again—because some abysses demand loyalty. THE CASTLE looms like a diseased brain—silent, swollen, mocking. K. climbs its frozen veins, begging for a verdict that never comes. And in that bureaucratic fog, I taste Kamov’s truth: authority is just delirium wearing a winter coat.

A passing girl. A glance scarcely born. A smile escaping from the corner of her eye. Four days have dissolved, yet that fragile spark endures—an ember lodged in the dim recess of memory, refusing to be extinguished by time’s indifferent breath.

Sunday morning arrives like a faint, reluctant breath. The streets are too quiet, as if they pity me. I sit by the window, watching the light hesitate on the glass. Nothing moves. Even my thoughts seem to wait for someone who never comes.

Balthus’ KATIA READING feels like a suspended breath: a girl folded into her private world, illuminated by a quiet, almost forbidden inwardness. The stillness is tense, tender, and faintly unsettling—an image where solitude becomes a secret form of radiance.

It is perversity in its purest form: watching good literature reduced to cinematic mush. The film industry trivializes what it cannot comprehend, convinced—perhaps rightly—that its audience has never opened the book it dares to betray.

Spent two hours in the bookstore, drowning in new titles—an avalanche of mediocrity. Our era has managed the final disgrace: it has commercialized even the void. The shelves groan with below-average literature, monuments to a culture that no longer deserves to read.

The street breathes a fragile peace. Darkness—my only unbiased companion—folds around me. The bare chestnut trees rise like forgotten totems. And really, who still needs a destination? The drifting itself becomes the only purpose left to hold on to.