I am working. I am always working. Borrrrrring!

Verily, it is so.

Anyway… I’m not complaining really. Just once in a while you have to yell into the void, “I am fucking bored!”

But also, one should never announce such malaise, as the universal power may be influenced into curing the mundane via the callous infliction of catastrophe.

And so, I shall not shout, nor even whisper, such contempt as I may currently feel for the monotony of this, my privileged Ground Hog Day. For there is also comfort in the meeting of low expectations. That I should repeat this pattern brings calm.

Oh, but how the flock may bleat, but without the shepherd of Fate, might we not find our tattered wool used as wolf-floss?

(Where the wolf plays the part of Excitement Upon Greener Grasses.)

For sooth, I am attempting to ferret out a greener path to pursue. But the challenge, then, must be to continue the watering of my own lawn whilst I peer through rose colored binoculars at possible fields of verdant lives afar.

Afar, afar, and unaffixed. Or affixed, affected, and unafflicted by the shadow of a rodent peering through his dream-drenched eyes. Yet, I repeat where I should digress.

And yet, again, this verbosity of possibility does nothing but delay the care of these grasses green, these blades of life I stomp and shift and stamp and sit upon, these simple lives that lay beneath my impulsive feet.

And so, to work, I must. To earn my wage that earns my home. I shall remain a cog in this unimpressive machine until this wrench of a wretch throws itself into the works and I take my browning grass blade to the fine twine of Fate, herself.

Just a thought.