As hard as I'm working to get back to the ex ante status of digital nomad in the Balkans (and it would merely require getting one of the lowly paid remote gigs that I'm obscenely overqualified for -- which is to say, it's not looking good), while this is rightfully the sole focus of my work, and I'm beginning to think that success in this rather soon may be necessary on an existential level, I recognize that it's downstream from the work -- when I was over there I was able to read, think, and write, in addition to maintaining the encounter with the arts, both the ones I'm qualified in, and those for which I'm simply the idiot savant (hold the savant).
And the books are here before me, for several hours in the daytime. (I actually briefly pined for access to these collections and cheap peanut butter during a dark day or two in Macedonia, even given the unimaginable associated difficulties.) So....
Hic Rhodus [It isn't, I tells ya!!!] Hic Salta [Salta est, salta est...]
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Handke's essay on tiredness in his most recent collection: Precisely this.
It's an interesting approach -- instead of using fiction to illuminate the human condition, he considers individual physical phenomena within the shared empirical existence and addresses them directly (while renouncing any claim to the thing as such).