Wolf's-hour fragments on black bile (melancholia)

Woke up at three. Could not sleep, read some Hegel.

The black bile of melancholy knows itself: black soil.

The black bile of melancholy knows itself for what it is: black soil. Therefore it is not simply a metaphor any longer.

Black soil: I’m not sure whether this is the right word.

Mustaa multaa.

Black dirt, earth, mould... I’m still not sure, after looking it up in a dictionary.

The elements are raging in the darkness, outside. What else is my anxiety than – hmh – this picture of Climate Change seen in the window?

In introducing a word I introduce it to itself.

In introducing a word I introduce it – to itself.