It is a nothing day. There is nothing today. Not even wind outside. Not even a breeze. I have been alone all day, reading Chekhov short stories on my bed, occasionally drinking water and smoking cigarettes on my window cill. Nothing has happened to me. Nothing is likely to happen.
I don't want to eat.
I don't want to watch porn.
I don't want to write.
I don't really even want to scratch the nape of my neck, but it itches.
This nothingness is not unhappiness. I am quite happy being nothing. There is a calm whirling in my stomach. It gently rolls around not unlike a weather system. It rolls and rises and then gently travels south.
I think I change my mind. I will watch some porn. I will most likely not be moved by it.