Sometimes it feels like being stuck to the tar baby. Not enough time to read, not enough time to write, hardly enough time to think.
I only work part time; you'd think I'd have plenty of time for reading and writing, a bit of quiet contemplation now and then, perhaps an Om or two. Some times it just doesn't work out. The damn novel takes up more time than I have left.
Gotta clean the carport, put a new chain on the bike, pull broom in Arana Gulch, report that scofflaw down the streets who parks his fifth-wheel trailer on the corner. (Anarchy means no rulers, not no rules). Then there's bike committee meetings, letters to editors and politicians, and just keeping up with the daily, disgusting news.
I'll just have to buck up, count a wave or two, appreciate the pelicans flying by in wavering v's. Everything in its time.