The rain seems to suspend everything. It doesn't, which is only the more vexing. It would have some alternative use if it did, existential, if it could.
Bored witless. Yes, it's only possible for a boring person; so, here I am.
Drove around the valley taking pictures of the green and the gray. Came home, pulled the green out.
There is much to see now, much that I see differently. It is a struggle not to feel as if it is all some less than elaborate fraud, some blatant trick in which the enthusiasm of youth gives way blinkingly to the useless understanding of age. It's not as if the scheme is even very well planned. It can fail in any number of ways, and does. Thinking back today to some of the attitudes and postures I held when I was younger, I am confronted with a piteous sense of hypocrisy. The false virtue of time.
If I had only not done the things I told myself that I shouldn't do.
.
