Somewhere I read that Leonard Woolf wrote only about what he ate on the day when Virginia committed suicide. In skimming my journal of these few months, I noticed that I did this empty practice many times: a dry list of what I ate, what I wore, what I read, and what I heard. By the way, it seems that I read Debord, Fourier, and L'Insurrection qui vient on 20 May 2012.
