Sunday brings out the worst in me. I feel a little restless, almost desperate. I'm only happy if I'm working. Oh, I could write. Let's just be honest here; how many more Ronny Elliott songs does the world need?
It occurs to me at this stage in life that it's a sketchy body of work that I will leave behind. I mean Beckett wrote "Waiting For Godot" before I accidentally began writing it over again. And again.
The weather suits my mood. I hope it rains.
"Waiting for Godot." What's it about? Really.
ReplyDeleteSynopsize, please.
There is nothing. We have to search for meaning and there is none. Who will mow the lawn when I'm gone?
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