stayed up late watching rafa play. he had a bizarre accident, hit his nose with the racket, knocked himself flat and won. i like the drama on the tennis court. the street and the outlying neighborhoods and the world seem distant for a time. i forget about the drama in my head. this autoportrait book is ok, i like that he just follows his mind, jotting down thoughts. it begins now and ends when it ends. in the time of endings in the end there is no end.