I am in a mood, said the bandit to the cavalier. The moon is a pool of liquid peach, responded he. Car bodies circle me like penitent testaments, said the bandit. You are a bloat of IF, sez the cavalier.
A man who is tired should not work
A man who is tired should not write
A man who is tired should not sleep
He should rest from care.
What is care? It is being awake with no answers, no cure.
It is interesting to write when you are tired. It is selfish. A disservice to the reader. And that is a disservice to oneself. But we explore this violation in a spirit of desultory voyaging. Kind of like if Erik the Red had had GPS.
What is time? It is a red flower, not a rose. A dahlia. The kind of thing you wouldn't be caught dead with. With which you would not care to be caught while, or in the state known as, dead.
What is death. It is a red red rose that traffics not in other red things, flowers in particular, with its upturned nose and creepily clustered eyelashes.
What is a burrito? It is perhaps the most functional form of food ever conceived. Breakfast, lunch, or dinner. They are always interesting and affordable and can be made quite different from each other.
Would it help if I died my hair pink?
Of course it would help. Look at the people with pink hair. Look at their faces. They don't need you and they don't need me.
I will close with a parable.
A man with two donkeys built a trap using a mathematical formula he had discovered in papers buried under a pile of books in his father's study. As night falls, the man withdraws to the hut he shares with his two donkeys, Esther and Chloe. Every night he has the same dream. Every morning he has forgotten the dream he had.