It is so terribly cold today, that as I press my hand against my naked thigh, as can happen during a trip to the lavatory, depending upon whether one stands or sits, it felt as though my skin was burning, that instead of pressing the side of my hand against a human thigh at normal temperature, I had in fact pressed it against some electrical device, some heater or some cooking gadget. If I had not known that this sensation had in fact been caused by nothing more threatening than my own flesh, I would have immediately drawn my hand away and concerned myself to investigate further. How odd. I have never experienced that before. And here I sit, later, in my unheated room, making this record of my observations in my green notebook, with a 9B pencil that keeps its point well, writing with hands so cold and unfeeling that my trembling traces are losing their meanings even before they finish being scraped off the little cone of graphite whose task today is to bear witness to such trivia.
I say this simply to record the fact that here are circumstances over which I have no lasting power to prevail. In these sorry times, when the rich keep paradise all for themselves, what should we expect?