If it weren't for all the marvelous toys at hand I'd have to say sometimes I'm so exhausted I can't see the point of another breath. But these cameras and optical receptacles exist to convey ideas, I am convinced, and ideas seem to think I am a slave to be abused as necessary, and no matter how much I say i am simply in thrall but would like my time to be my own, some idea cruises in immediately starts making demands. Possibility is a cruel sickness. Worse than potential. I guess I'm at the apex of my energy and ambition, and I have a vague idea of what I'll be doing this week, even ideas about now through February, but then what? Unknowable.
How are you doing at this age? Do you see more mountains or more valleys? Dream more awake than asleep, still? Where is there mystery for you?