The monthly column is due by tomorrow. Seven hundred and fifty words, give or take, was once a stroll in the park -- sort of like playing fetch with a small, happy dog. Now it becomes increasingly a weight and freight and besides all that it is larded with what feels like repetition, as if there were nothing that carried a bright freshness. In the near future, I will have to stop committing to the exercise and yet, because in the past I have committed, I will follow through just now.
That's what I will work on in the still-darkness embattled by the mediocrity of light bulbs this morning ... rising early in order to be repetitive and stale. Is mediocrity a curse to which everyone is subject or is it simply the way of the world, the plain-Jane of a reality I am too lazy to play fetch with.
At least 4:30 a.m. has a freshness.
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