With no apparent cause I have been hit with sadness this evening. Well, the reason seems obvious. But it is omnipresent such that that it hit today and not yesterday or any other day makes little sense. Perhaps it is that I have nothing to do.
Not exactly true. There’s a table downstairs I’ve been making that I have yet to put nails into, but it’s getting late and I’m not graced with walls thick enough that it be acceptable to make loud noise now. I have a large new book of Debussy that I could be getting on with, and a whole orchestral album I’ve had the impulse to accompany, but one has little motivation to play piano when the keys are plastic, without the nuances of loud and soft, or the function of the sustain, sostenuto, and una corda pedals; or the realism of a proper instrument. I have The Fountainhead to read: this appears an actual possibility, given I am in a similar position to the protagonist. I could sleep: I would have little trouble, and perhaps I would feel better in the morning.
I don’t know.