The sky remained pale and sullen. Sperm was oozing from the sky all day long. Saw the carcass of a dead dog on the road with all its intestines exposed. Poor thing must have been run over. I am contemplating on books to read but I read nothing today. I have started reading Che Guevara’s motorcycle diaries. Feel very enthused by his almost idealistic motivation to move over Latin America on a Motor Bike. I have an unread Ulysses by James Joyce beside me. Yes, I want to read fiction, poetry and Philosophy. The dials of the clock are lying in the grave. Do I need to stop smoking? I want to but I can’t. The sky is etched in frescoes of gigantic claws. I had a restful day. I did a workout in the evening. Then I smoked a few cigarettes. A Tibetan terrier, a puppy has been gifted to our home. It’s so friendly and wags its tail like a workaholic. Its ages since I have smoked Weed and listened to Tambourine Man. I have had a happy encounter. Consciousness is smoking words in bits and spurts. I ponder over Sartre’s realm of Being and Nothingness. Yes, I agree to him and his ontological negation. The flowers of the flame of the forest lie as petals on the ground. I think of Nietzsche’s Ubermensch, the Dionysian and the Apollonian which make art. I wish to write words like a painter. Sometimes I think of joining a secret society. But no one is willing to initiate me. I wrote a letter to the Free Masons but got no response.