Well, what do intelligent people write about? There is only death and bad news; the trifles of here, there, and then. Everything else is pudding. I could catalog the poor reports of my day, though I am tired and it is late. Being alone at night slows the world to stop. Everywhere there is misery. Why not.
A distraction, a void.
Perhaps CS is right: sobriety is a boring horror of rationale and emptiness, a void of distraction. There is no vacationing - time passes slowly if at all. No way to balance the future and past in the present. Time seems personal, it's not you. Nothing left to rectify; everybody moved or is moving; bad news lasts; the rents rise.
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