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The sermon for Jan. 27, 2004 is: demain le noir matin 3:07 a.m. Ah, holy shit. I've spent the last four hours reading (Proust, natch; and David Thomsen's Biographical Dictionary of Film), leaving messages on the answering machines of people all over the world, and watching "Silverado" on network TV. I remember watching "Silverado" before; it didn't seem to take this long, despite Kevin Costner having a role in it. It was, nevertheless, a pleasant way to spend the evening -- beneath the amber glow of my one comfy lamp, surrounded by clothes and bedsheets, the sexy scent of Benadyne seducing my senses--; and, when "Silverado" finally ended, I was moreover glad that I could finally, finally turn off the lamp and go to sleep. Provided, of course, that the next movie wasn't one that I was morally obligated to see. Well, the next movie was one that I was morally obliged to see. La vita � bella, fuck. All I can be glad for is that I'd feel thoroughly teary and disgusted with my sentimentalism by six this morning -- a lovely frame of mind to welcome the sunrising, I should think. And when the sun rises, I will dedicate the day to: Jelena, and Rebecca, and Guy. They will never know it; but this day will be a secret concert, just for them.
 
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