Today, I feel useless. My life appears to have no plot line, no series of magical events, no meaning at the present moment. I have no faith in my writing, my studies, myself. I don’t feel like doing anything apart from reading Norwegian Wood by Murakami. I just want to stay in bed with tea and a good book. Of course, I’d like someone to be in bed with me, talking to me about literature and art and travel, a beautiful distraction. I feel like I can’t write today. I just feel useless.