The day after tomorrow, not until the day after tomorrow . . .
I'll spend tomorrow thinking about the day after tomorrow,
And then maybe, we'll see; but not today . . .
Today is out of question. Today I can't.
The confused persistence of my objective subjectivity,
The fatigue of my real, intermittently appearing life,
The anticipated and infinite weariness,
A multi-world weariness just to catch a streetcar,
This species of soul . . .
                                       Not until the day after tomorrow . . .
Today I want to get ready,
I want to get ready to think tomorrow about the day after . . .
That will be the decisive one.
I've already planned it out; but no, today I'm not planning
      anything.
Tomorrow is the day for plans.
Tomorrow I will sit at my desk to conquer the world,
But I'll conquer the world the day after tomorrow  . . .
I feel like crying,
I suddenly feel, deep within, like crying.
No, don't try to find out any more, it's a secret, I'm not telling.
Not until the day after tomorrow . . .

When I was a child I was amused by the Sunday circus every week.
Today I'm only amused by the Sunday circus of every week of my childhood.
The day after tomorrow I'll be different,
My life will triumph,
All of my real qualities of intelligence, erudition and practicality
Will be convened by an official announcement,
But by an announcement to be made tomorrow . . .
Today I want to sleep; I'll draft announcements tomorrow . . .
For today, what show is playing that would reenact my childhood?
I'll be sure to buy tickets tomorrow,
Since the day after tomorrow is when I want to go,
Not before. . .
The day after tomorrow I'll have the public image which tomorrow
        I'll rehearse.
The day after tomorrow I'll finally be what today I could never be.
The day after tomorrow, not before . . .

I feel tired the way a stray dog feels cold.
I feel very tired.
Tomorrow I'll explain it to you, or the day after tomorrow . . .
Yes, perhaps not until the day after tomorrow . . .

The future . . .
Yes, the future . . .