I’m gathering my thoughts with some difficulty. They seem to be whirling, flowing in a colourful and seemingly rapid stream, but whenever I stop one – it disappoints me. It is hard to treat any of them as good, or, as mine at all. Somehow they, these thoughts, are somewhat flimsy and paltry. Some, by the way, may not be all that flimsy or paltry, but the less flimsy they are, the more slippery and evasive they become. I could leave this stream of thoughts to its course, without trying to catch anything, and then without eating it, digesting it, excreting it, and so on... but such inactivity, exactly the opposite of what old wisdoms say, immediately causes deep anxiety in me. It is possible that this stream is flowing from nowhere to nowhere; in short, it is flowing in circles. It is rather certain that it is doing so, just like all else. But to assume that it flows for nothing and that it is allowed to simply do nothing is a profound, narcissistic, wasteful and stupid arrogance. 

I throw the above thought back into the stream again, because what else would I do with it.

The Tale is gaining momentum. By the way, the said stream is actually disturbing my writing. Its trickling does not offer relief; rather, it irritates and distracts. But it is possible to ignore it for some time. In my case, preferably early in the morning. The more often, the longer the time stretches. Anyway, I had to tinker with the cast for The Tales a bit at the last minute, but I think that is finally over and done. Just in case, I will not tell what I decided on. The text itself also made it to its final shape and form. I’m moving on. In turn, I let the Reptile (another Leśmian's poem) speak at its own pace. I haven’t written anything down yet, but I know a lot. In both cases, I already have a fairly imminent end date constantly in the back of my mind – which is necessary, because far away in the background preparations for yet another thing have started and have progressed quite far – a thing that will fill the rest of the year for me and then some. Some grumble about deadlines. I totally don’t understand them.

Yuval Noah Harari said in the conversation with Sam Harris that the war in Ukraine might give us grounds for some optimism, because it is a last-minute wake-up call before the catastrophe towards which the world was clearly heading. Harari argues that Putin has both underestimated and overestimated the state of things, meaning that if he had waited a while longer, a few more years, the Western world would no longer have been able to come together and resist. But now – the West managed to do so, and all can still be well. Well, I hope so. At first, Harari’s diagnoses inspire confidence; they seem exceptionally sobering. But on second thought, they also arouse a certain amount of doubt. Somehow they, these diagnoses, are a little too rounded, too smooth. They shape themselves into some eternal, all-embracing bon mot just a little too much. But maybe it was actually the wheat that domesticated the man, not the other way around.

Meanwhile, another turn to the sun, for the four and a half billionth time.