I wake up with a bad conscience, with bad faith, as usual. There’s something far too obscure about me, which I don’t like. It’s not supposed to be the Danish way, that’s for sure, for most of yourself to be hidden like this.
But the clearing remains, somehow, and doesn’t feel guilty. It doesn’t feel anything, isn’t really anything. It says, You are the clearing, the fact of your being here, in this little room.
And beyond the clearing that you are, if you dare to face it? It doesn’t bear thinking about, the beyond. And I can’t be bothered to think about it.