Above my thighs, I'm feeling mostly OK. Below, I can't say the same. My legs glow tender red like a million furtive dreams. If the mosquitoes don't recall them, I certainly will, over and over, and over...

Above, and besides that, I'm feeling distracted: or, feeling like I'm distracting myself. It sort of comes and goes, depending on how low I let my head hang (I have a much longer neck than what photographs show). I'm not unproductive, but the reasons are feinted and reactionary. Thus I protest against my own will. Scratch, scratch.

There is this film I saw recently, called The Pervert's Guide To Cinema, essentially an illustrated lecture, narrated and presented by cultural critic Slavoj Zizek. Zizek using scenes from the cinematic canon to corroborate his psychoanalytical observations on how film reflects and represents our inner selves. In it he says, "a nightmare is a fantasy realized," and erotic desire is experienced through "the virtual universe of fantasies." Unfortunately what this must mean is that my new song, which I haven't stopped singing for a week now, is not just a bad dream, but also a persistent hard-on. Good grief.