Life Without WorkTo do nothingIn this day and age, When so much pointless workIs being produced, Could almost be considered an achievement. It all compares most unfavorablyWith my own imaginaryBody of work.
John Tottenham
IMPROVIDENCEThe other lives I might have ledAll now might as well beDead. Survived by no one. Barren, without issue of any sort: This withered bud, failedIn art and love. With no time leftTo change my course. But time enoughfor infinite remorse.
poetry
SONG OF DAWNI saw the sun rise by accident. It was a horrible sight. Annoyed by its splendor, I sought refugein a moist pillow, and lay there, alone, at the dawn of another day, that brought me closer to another death, pondering the vanity of my solitude, the vanity of procrastination, and the tiresome inevitability of waking upagain the same person. It might still be possible to change, but obstinately I remain the same, hoping that others might take solacein my consistency. But perhaps they take no solace in it, perhaps they too find it tedious.
regret vanity desperation
life work
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