I've woken too late to really work on anything here. Yesterday at the factory I was made a slave to a further extent, stripped of more dignity and freedom of choice. Last night, I awoke in the dark with daytime nightmares, something that hasn't happened for weeks. Telling myself I must rise, I fell back into a fitful sleep. Life unfolds as it has, and I am too puny to stop it.
For now. The thing about being human is that we can always change our mind (as long as we have one). Mine is not yet made up.
The weather doesn't help. It is 100/100 here, temperature and humidity. A figurative pressure cooker. While these summer days can be pleasant elsewhere, they never are here. The world is deep green and lush, wild and full of molding, sweetly pungent rot. Not even Dante came close to describing this.
It is Friday, and I have no plans. I envision the usual solitude and (dis)quiet and early bed, some exercise and too much drink.
Or, perhaps, I'll change my ways. Or begin something new.
You know, something daring and different. . . like a new restaurant.
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