(no subject)

That the poets should sing at my whim, and the birds be charmed from the branches as I pass, and the clouds hide behind the blue skies seems normal. When all is better-than-well in ones world one starts to wonder: where is the bus that mounts the pavement? where the lightning storm? where the meteorite? I mean, a parking fine is no bad start, but is in the end, just stuff. Of the important things in life, I now have plenty.

I'm one neurotic bastard: and I've got to change.