The Many, Temporal Versions of the Self
Being, Nothingness, and Anguish in Three Acts
It’s November 19th and I write this from my bed in my new, empty Brooklyn apartment. Weirdly, I’m hesitating moving in all my old things or getting new furniture because I am delighting in the austerity. Everything is simple, essential. Like I am in a Nordic prison and I’m a happy little jailbird.
In a moment of sick curiousity, I try a new form of doom scrolling: I decide to look at the camera roll on my phone and scroll back to see exactly what I am doing on the 19th of each month of this year.
