For instance, apart from this valueless blog entry, I haven't been able to write anything. Well, I did write a few lines for my novel this morning, but I had been having a prolonged conversation with myself all week about the importance of writing two thousand words on Friday for the novel to complete the sixth chapter; and when Friday finally came, I settled for only fifty instead of the two thousand words with which I had promised myself. And by the way, the only promises I break without dither are the fragile ones I make to myself.
I then resorted to music, which is something that almost never lets me down, but I couldn't really savor any of the dreary tunes my pale fingers on the cold keys were making. I then listened to some classical pieces composed by the greats, Franz Liszt and Beethoven, and that was unquestionably the topmost highlight of my day. Mankind will eternally be in debt to those guys for their melodic miracles with which our lives go on.
Eventually, when I ran out of my usual options, the thought of exploiting my time positively by doing some useful things—even if they were too mundane and inartistic—crawled into my lethargic mind. I thought about having a shower to dispel that slight smell of stench blanketing my body, or at least shaving my creepy beard, but I found out that my physical laziness was even more severe than my mental one. I honestly couldn't even tidy my desk; I only cleared some space for my laptop to be able to write this entry.
Man, I fucking hate Fridays religiously.
