There are so many important things I want to write about. Like the documentary that made me cry and the undeliverable email I wrote to its maker; like my reliance on the lyrics of the plethorically coiffed 70s chanteur Joe Dassin to boost me out of funks caused by the slings and arrows of interpersonal relationships; like my frustration at the loss of contact with old friends. I want to write about Neil Leach telling me today that my website has readers in UC Berkeley who think I’m funny (insert Joe Pesci quote here), about my nostalgia for my life in Greece and the naiveté I enjoyed, about entertaining thoughts of chucking euro coins to the anti-EU protestors who marched under my window on Saturday morning, about the misguided new-agers I endured on Firday night who equate green politics with bindis, bad sitar-playing, head massages, and buddhism, and about how the British nationalists and the tree huggers are contributing to misanthropy making a big comeback in the fashionable attitude boutiques of my mind. I have a lot to write under all these headings.

But instead, I am going to go to sleep. When I get up tomorrow I will have forgotten half of what I wanted to write, and the other half won’t seem important anymore. My unwritten thoughts will be irrevocably lost, like so much else.

But I will have become the king of anticlimax.