Too much to write, or too little?
The boom and I are tired today. We had to sit halfway through our post-dinner neighborhood loop.
Tired with all these, for restful death I cry,
As to behold desert a beggar born,
And needy nothing trimm’d in jollity,
And purest faith unhappily forsworn,
And gilded honour shamefully misplac’d,
And maiden virtue rudely strumpeted,
And right perfection wrongfully disgrac’d,
And strength by limping sway disabled
And art made tongue-tied by authority,
And folly—doctor-like—controlling skill,
And simple truth miscall’d simplicity,
And captive good attending captain ill:
Tir’d with all these, from these would I be gone,
Save that, to die, I leave my love alone.
— William Shakespeare
In other news…
“Be patient, Ophelia.
― Kurt Vonnegut
In short: life is the only choice. Life is love. (Deus caritas est.) (Transitive property and…voi la: the greatest revelation.)
When life is tough, squat. Then sleep.
Just a few more chores before we hit the sack.
Loving life, even with cottony sleep clouds floating through my thoughts