There are low clouds, thin and wispy, moving by very quickly and there are also high clouds, like furrows plowed in crooked fields, sitting perfectly still. It's like there are two skies. It's like someone accidentally put up tomorrow's sky today right on top of today's sky. I cannot help but worry that there will be no sky left for tomorrow, that tomorrow there will be no sky. What will happen, I wonder, to all the people who are supposed to fly on airplanes tomorrow? There will be no sky in which to fly. Their sky is crowding up the air of today with unnecessary complexity.
Meanwhile there is the problem of all these damned writers to deal with. What the hell are we all supposed to write about? There's not enough inspiration to go around. Some of us are really struggling out here and the governments and the gods aren't doing anything at all to help us. WHAT THE HELL ARE WE SUPPOSED TO WRITE? A friend of mine got a pretty sweet gig the other day writing the same sentence over and over and over again on a chalk board. Some people have all the luck. Meanwhile here I am, looking up at the damned clouds, worried about tomorrow.
Maybe I'll write about that.
Hello, friends. How are you today?
Later. Love.
