The white screen. Again, the white screen. Simbols, experiences, lights of the day everywhere, but the screen is white. White like the end of the joint I'm smoking, the tip where my lips touch the burning paper. And I think that the white screen is like the white cigarette: as you write, as you smoke, the white starts to vanish into a mixture of black letters and grey ashes.
I put off the cigarette on the ash tray that Patrick gave me when he came back from Gottingen, where Hilbert developped the mathematical language of quantum mechanics. It was three years ago, back when I was still interested in Hilbert. I wish I had now the energy to study Hilbert again, but with what I know now.
We're always late, even when we realise we are late, it's already late. And we say "I wish I had not fallen in love for you, I wish I had known you earlier, I wish I had not sold those stocks, I wish I had studied more, I wish I had taken that job..."
Rubbish. All rubbish. I think it was Kuhn who said that "ones who are ahead of their generation are actually the only ones that understand their generation". Einstein was not ahead of his time: he produced the atomic bomb, they key element of the 20th century.
I'm high, but I must say: that I do not regret anything, but that I live to regret.