I've been trying to get up at 5 in the morning since I've started working full time. I reread almost weekly the first chapter of Paul Alexander's Rough Magic about Sylvia Plath getting up with a fever at 4 a.m. every morning in the English winter to write while her children slept. I have time after work, when my thinking is murdered and my thing for hypotaxis twineth around my ability to articulate with much clarity, but that is one thing I envy.
"Black Moon" is coming to Criterion; that and everything by Anne Carson is making my depressive episode even more stupid. I love a sinister French countryside. I love an institution of shadows on a street black as windows.
Edit: I never saw this and today was the perfect day to see it!