Horror of unemployment: the day is too long, too vast; there will be another day, as long and as vast and on forever. Not having nothing to do, but the feeling that whatever you did could not fill the vastness which beats against you as if asking the question (is it a question?) who are you? No – not a question, but a kind of interrogation: again and again you are made to account for yourself even as you are reminded that in the vast expanse of days you are nothing. No wonder I always try and carve time up into specific projects and tasks, to forestall the moment when I am up against nothing in particular, undetermined time. I fear it … this is why I fear drifting, reading, writing, wandering. Yesterday, my office wasn’t open. I couldn’t escape my flat. I felt the same old horror … I thought books could distract me, but reading Bergman, Tarkovsky, Bresson, Blanchot only exacerbated the problem. Then I remembered what someone wrote about Mahler: he was a neurotic, the great existential questions that resound in his work are those of a neurotic. But then I also remembered the pages on anxiety from Heidegger, which disclose the other side of neurosis. But Heidegger provides no solution, because it was not death I dreaded, but time without project.
Lars Iyer's Blog 
All these pages. I wrote them. I didn’t write them that is, but they are the pages I could have, would have, written. They are the pages I wrote more than the pages I really did write. When I read them, I recognized them as being the pages I had written. I have no memory of writing them – but now they are written, written by another, then I must change in retrospect the pages I would have written, so that they can be the pages I wrote. But even this is already, and has always been, in my memory.
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