Idly Idling Iders Idle Idly

The profoundly inane has made its way to my desk. Hysterically non-sensical spasms are imminent, not from me , but from the ominpresent voice of reason that hovers above us all like a plague waiting to happen. I have no decorations at my station (which is a terminus) for reasons I don't believe I need disclose, and this manifests the Inanity Beast's deepest of humors. He writhes with joy in my indifference. He jerks in ecstasy over my muddy will. He jiggles with an evil mirth as I humorlessly do my job. Soon the ghosts iwll solidify and I will be where they want me to be which of course is where I don't want to be and yet I will be there out of mere responsibility on my part. I'll probably end up like the cartoon-strip character 'office space' was based on: the guy who's moved to the basement who loves his stapler. That's most definitely the would-be me, fortunately not the to-be me or even will-be me, much less the much longer-be me. Serendipity has ruled my life so far, and I've let it, collecting & observing & digesting what I come across by default. It appears, however, that the ghost train of malcontented angels has lost steam, and added 25 pounds to my frame. It also seems that I can now direct chance like a spear and thrust it in the right direction which would happen to be direction I've been made to face all along. Maybe I'm lucky, maybe I'm fortunate, all I know is that I'm warmed up.
Monday, February 11, 2002
11:38 a.m.
by: adam douglas payne