Living hasn't been on my agenda for a while. Oh, I've eaten. I've slept. I've written. I just don't bother to finish anything. The concept of joy faded over some time.
Chaplin can make me laugh for forty minutes but I know that I'll be crying when the circus pulls out and he walks down the road alone.
I've stored little bits of joy all over the house. I don't get 'em out very often.
Every bit of music that I care about is right here. I don't listen to it.
Happy is so overrated.