Where am I at the moment? At a kitchen table. With empty plates and things all around me. With chapter one of the thesis open in another window. Looking rather pale. Not quite sure if I'm hungry or not. Not quite sure what to write next about Deleuze. Feeling some strange existential angst that is, I know - disappointingly - only related to the thesis' not being finished. So yes. This is the last post until that fateful day.