So forgive the pretentious early-twenties philosophical import of
this post, but it is a blustery day in Ohio the likes of which Pooh
waxed melancholy, and I am wrangled up in grey sweater and mussed hair
and sleeping dogs and thoughtful.
Is this it? You work and sleep and eat and fuck and make kids (maybe)
and make art (if you’re lucky) and consume culture/resources and get
sick and get well and complain about the weather/politics/the war and
The order of these events may, of course, vary.
When I was younger, I always thought there was more to it, but lately I’ve had a sneaking suspicion that maybe there isn’t.
So, you tell me.