Day 0336

This is what happens when I paint; I come back the next day intending to touch it up, completely repaint everything, gradually ruining it, then panic, feel the blood rising, continue to paint, irrevocably destroy it. So sad I ruined yesterday's work, which I was pleased with.

Finished the Mechanical Mind, which made me think I may be too dim-witted to follow the point of the sophisticated philosophical arguments it brings up. Later self-preserved by concluding that the problem was with the incoherence of the arguments, not my own intellectual limitations, which though wrong is much more acceptable to my image of myself as the next big thing.

Watched a documentary about Wittgenstein, which I identified with: hermit tendencies, profound love of Tolstoy, depression.

Have had to take that disgusting painting off the easel, good God.

No guarantees of progress in art. It would have been better if I hadn't even bothered today.

Regression to the mean. Not driving, not going out, not working, laying around, over-eating, reading pathologically, insufficient human contact.