A certain experience was like a bright ray of sunshine in a poor old man's life, but she is gone, and as strange as it would sound to some ordinary man, I miss her. Now everything is so drab, dull and grey. I feel slight self-pity.

And the new good idea that I found some time ago created a problem somewhere else in that already compact story I have been creating; the story is like a tight jigsaw puzzle and changing one part of it affects all the other parts.

And the autumn is here, and melancholy, and I cannot even use the antidepressant escitalopram any more because it makes -- yes, hell, it makes pissing in the evening even more difficult than it was before. I must very reluctantly prepare myself for the idea of the second prostate operation in the future; the fucking gland has grown too big again. (I still used escitalopram in the beginning of this year; now it seems to have become impossible.)

Luckily I see one benefit in that operation: after that I should take it easy for one month or a month and a half, and I could not take any heavy walks.

This is my social media, so I rant here.