Day 0388

The life of the wastrel; failed to leave bed before midday, yet still spent the day in exhausted stupor. Walk in the pre-spring ever so slightly hazy pastel sun. Goldfinch, thrush, puddles, contractors in their vans.

Started Ayn Rand's Atlas Shrugged, which is more of the same. Too patently an autobiographical fantasy, too clear in its artifice and inelegant in its style to be as great as it thinks it is. I will enjoy and learn from it nonetheless. Reading as mining, extracting and appropriating ideas and modes of thought for free.