Burglaries And Windmills

I'm becoming a sponge. It's heavenly really.

But at the same time, I end up feeling so...unaccomplished, idle (imagine that), wasteful...(?)

I'll curl up in bed and read a good two hundred pages of a novel, then stretch like a kitten, and stumble off to get something to eat. As I stare out the kitchen window at the wide world, I wonder, Am I really using my time of freedom sufficiently?

I end up staring out the window for a long time.

That's always the question. Are these good days? Is this a good usage of my so short life? It slips and slides through my fingers so quickly... I can only hope I'm transforming those tiny grains of sand into flecks of gold dust.

Not just for me and my pleasure and enjoyment, but for a Higher purpose and cause...

I don't really know. And I guess it can be hard to tell. You never know when you're preparing for something bigger than yourself.

I haven't had enough sleep (or sugar for that matter) to be trying to think deeply like this. A spasm of philosophical, moralistic leanings there. I'll go back to spacing and singing and wasting and coughing and reading now.

And coughing. I expect that my lungs are going to come up my esophagus soon. Or something dreadful. Seems that way...

before & & after