I'm excited to be receiving a "lava-stone massage" in an hour. I'm already inundated with the hot, heavy air of the spa I'm in. X's having her massage right now and I'm eager to hear her words about it.

Just read an extract of Houellebecq in #213 of The Paris Review and I don't think I'll read his stuff again. The synopsis of his work seems interesting, but the fact is that I just don't like the grit itself; anti-feministic literature appeals as much to me as racist literature, needless to say, really. If I wanted to read drab tirades of the fall of the vulva-carrying portion of Earth, I'd just search Twitter for "feminism".

People splash before me, swimming around, around as though they're part of a slow-moving Esther Williams tribute. It's like watching an extended cut scene from a David Lynch film, shot and shown in the IMAX format.

My flip-flops are strange. Industrial, green design. Green to match the drapes and walls of the spa, I'm guessing, not designed to look like a foot that would belong to a frog that's leprous, but here I am.

And people keep swimming.

I like reading the long interviews of The Paris Review. More often than not, they're with people I know nothing about. I like that, when the subjects are interesting and interested, like the interviews with William S. Burroughs, Vivian Gornick, Ernest Hemingway. Yeah, the mag's been around for that long. The interview with Michael Hanecke, the director who made "Funny Games" (both the original and the Hollywood remake), is really good as well. Loads of others are, too, but the boring interviews are so boring that I feel like wanting to off myself. Spoiler: I never finish them. I'm no longer prone to self-inflicting harm.

I wonder if I'm gonna write about my vacation in Crete, with X. I know we're gonna do something special and private about it, I just mean with pictures and words, right here. I feel like blogging again. Writing through a mobile phone feels insane, but at the same time, it allows my mind to work better at writing, than if I'd have a computer in my lap right now. Could be for the same reasons a lot of writers use the pen before a computer.

Recently, I've been stuck in discussions with people behaving xenophobically, obviously through the Internet. That's how it works in Sweden. They're too sad and fearsome to try applying their words face-to-face with a person who disagrees with them. Some times, I've felt like an idiot, trying to make them understand that facts and reality are - and I'm not being a douche, promise - essential when excavating something like "the islamists always have to go too far in Sweden". If you utter something like that, back it up. I'm reminded of Saul Williams as I enter a discussion like that: "if you have tears/prepare to shed them now"; not because I want to annihilate them, but because theirs is a stand that's built on irrational, irreverent hate, and that boxes them in, creates a cage around their entire minds that makes them unable to be free. Stoicism like that's fucking nuts, is what I'm saying.

I'm not a great thinker, a brilliant mind, the voice of millions. I'd hate it if I thought I'd be near anything like that. I often think that I may be wrong, that I will apologise for my way if I think I'm wrong, and will always try to see another person's perspective. Otherwise, I'd be well and essentially fucked. That's just how I want to argue and be.

Despite that, there are some axioms bobbing around in my head, that I will never question: every living being on this earth is worth as much as the next one. Everybody deserves freedom. If one person cries, the joke's not funny anymore. Stuff like that. I'm not unique in this way, naturally.

So, seeing people sprout xenophobic, nationalistic ideas on social media, without the slightest thought for care or intellectual thinking (including critical thinking) just makes me sad and angry. It should, I think. I don't dislike the people, not mainly, but it's so weird to see where we are. I wonder if it's due to how Sweden has been sheltered from harm for so long. No wars for centuries, no real strife compared with a lot of other nations (although capitalism is really coming out strong now), et cetera. It's easy to blame the unknown. But if you do, where's the fun and joy in life?

Soon it's time for my massage. Most people have stopped swimming. Still, the water pours. And I almost pour. I hear flutes playing in the background and lavender's in the air, still hot. Tonight there's an outdoors cinema going, about people like Blixa Bargeld and bands like Einstürzende Neubauten, all from 1980s Berlin. Excited! And I'll meet friends. And I'll be there with X. Life is, right now, beautiful. I hope that you are doing just as fucking great.