So I want to write about clarity and I sit staring at the screen in a dull catatonic state.  The duties of the morning brought me here and time stops.

My readings meet my needs, inspire some thoughts, but words are a struggle.

It’s death again.  Sort of drags the brightness of the day down a touch.  What AM I doing here?  Why do we wander from day to day?  Who cares and why bother?  Maybe they are thoughts of the addict in my head who keeps waiting for the end of the world so we can indulge in all sorts of mind-bending drugs and alcohol–which, I remind her, is redundant.  As the end of the world will be a trip in itself to experience.

Back to today.  The meaning of life that I have grabbed on to is to collect and share stories.  So here’s one. 

Death is just an elderly doorman, waiting patiently, but looking scary.  He escorts us to the other side, but when he closes the door behind us, the living who are still on the planet just see this unmovable ugly man of shadows, grisly face, piercing eyes.  Just doing his job.

See you soon old man.