Bummer. It's a Monday. A very ordinary one. But it's a Monday. Waking up is a hangover. The first bits of winter are frozen against the balcony window door and there's a morbid sense of existence on my way to work in an auto.
The good thing here is that I can write whatever the shit I want to. I'm terrible with writing structured plot. To help myself I create a faint outline, but no plots. Right now I'm wasting your time as well as mine. Lately writing has dipped and I don't think it's going to get better. I feel like Barton Fink a bit in front of the keyboard.
So what about hope? Hope in writing or in existence? Is there any point to it. I see futility. But there is hope, isn't there? Waiting to bless you as you kneel against your very own Pandora's box. Oh darkness and it's bitter dreams. But can one live in hope? Maybe there is life somewhere else just like Earth. If our very own existence was an accident, a big bang that took place some million years ago -- the probability of another one? Sure. Sure. Dreamers.
I see futility on a Monday. And just like everyone else I need a coffee.