Alright, so I didn't get around today to finishing off yesterday's mammoth post. Give it a few days.

Meanwhile, I've run out of Franz Kafka-related searches to google, and I don't have the stomach for more blogs at this late hour... And now it occurs to me that I've run out of prompts to make me work. Once, a little Nietzsche would help. I'd feel glorious and strong and want to be exuberant upon the written page. And at another point, it was Benjamin - particularly, the bit from Einbahnstrasse (One-Way Street) in which he outlines ''The Writer's Technique in Thirteen Theses''. This one was always my favourite:

Let no thought pass incognito, and keep your notebooks as strictly as the authorities keep their register of aliens.

It made me think of writing as a noble task, but moreover as an urgent crusade against higher and barbaric powers.

I've learnt that Kafka fills me with a desire to be esoteric (if one can 'be' esoteric) and obscure, while Spinoza made want to become a robot...

A long walk is probably the best medicine that I could offer myself. Except it's 4:34am, and I'm working in the morning.

I did formulate something last night, though, after typing and typing my long post on Kant. And that is: 'the blog as typing cure'. It's a tricky one, given the lack of immediate feedback that comes from blogging. One thing gained from hitting 'publish post', of course, is the pleasure of seeing one's work whole, edited, finished, tied-off at the end. But there is also its cathartic effect. Which extends beyond that of diary writing, I would like to believe, as the projected audience is imbued in the mind with a more concrete set of expectable responses than the one that is imagined as the finder of the diary. Thus: blog as talking cure.

I'm transferring onto you right now, dear reader...