When I woke up today, I carried on thinking. It occurred to me that I should do something; since there’s no sign of anything new, or any change or interesting surprise, I should take matters into my own hands and create a suitable topic for the ending. Then I decided that wasn’t really allowed. I can’t go out into the street dressed as a monkey to generate an interesting and unusual anecdote with which to finish the book; I can’t start structuring my life around the diary and the need to finish it. I also thought about how the ideal ending would be something like this:

‘I’m tired of this situation, I’m tired of this grey life, I’m tired of the pain caused by this strange relationship with Chl, the knowledge that I’ve lost her even though she’s right there, the sexual tension every time we meet, which doesn’t lead to anything except this absurd addiction to the computer; I’m tired of myself, of my inability to live, of my failure. I didn’t manage to finish the grant project; it was a bad idea, it can’t be done, I didn’t realise that time can’t go backwards, or that I’ve become someone else. The writerly role is stuck to my skin but I’m not a writer any more, and I never wanted to be one. I don’t want to write, I’ve said everything I wanted to say, and writing has stopped being fun and giving me an identity. It’s not true what my friend Verani says in some essays, particularly in his work on Empty Words: that my desperation arises from not being able to write. I can write; look, I’m writing now and I’m doing it well. I can write whatever I like; no one disturbs me, no one interrupts me, I have all the equipment and all the comfort I need; I just don’t want to, I don’t feel like it. And I’m tired of playing this role. I’m tired of everything. Life is no more than a stupid, unnecessary, painful burden. I don’t want to suffer any more, or carry on with this miserable life of routines and addictions. As soon as I close these quotation marks, then, I’m going to shoot myself in the head.’