'the sound of inevitability'...

     I've been up since o dark thirty. Don't you just love that phrase? O dark thirty - it's mysterious, and tough, while conveying an ever so subtle air of complaint. Tell me, dear reader, whence this genius in the language?
     In a few minutes the thing starts. It's raining outside. I would rather not do this thing, you know. When I signed up for it, well, it was like I was an uncanny enthusiast in some sort of cult. Now, here I am, having paid a smallish fee for the thing, and I would rather read patristics or Vasari's Lives or Plato....
     You get the idea.
     Don't I have people to do things like this for me? I mean, this is ridiculous. Shouldn't I be on a yacht somewhere receiving the occasional report from underlings busy about the task of making money so that I might read patristics or Vasari's Lives or Plato on a yacht? Let's say we're off the coast of one of them Azores, that'd work, or perhaps in the Aegean. Come to think of it, the Aegean sounds just fine, although I hear it's a tad polluted at the moment.
     O well, dear reader, here you find me, with responsibilities and obligations [they aren't exactly the same]. Cumbered I am, o my friends, cumbered with cares. This must be what it's like to be an emperor, say, or at the very least the President. Come to think of it, were I the President, I could have drones circle overhead, listening to the thing and recording all of it. Were their video game operators.... O, I'm sorry, apparently they think they're pilots.... As I was saying, were the pilots [heh] to detect anyone asleep during a particularly important and riveting presentation, well, then, KAPOW!
     Where was I? O yes, the thing. I won't bore you with details. Suffice it to say that it's all business. No one will mention patristics or Vasari's Lives or Plato, not for three whole days. O, look, some denizens have arrived and are making their way as we speak to the thing. I feel a creeping sense of ennui. I mean, it wouldn't be so bad if one of them were to say, 'You know, I don't much feel like discussing patristics or Vasari's Lives or Plato, but have you heard of this Richard of St. Victor?' That would be fine. Let's not wait for it.
     So now this has become an exercise in writing for the sake of procrastination. Time never seems to stop for me. O well. Assuming Jesus doesn't return in the next few days, and granting that it's unlikely an asteroid will hit the earth, it's likely that by Sunday I can return to patristics or Vasari's Lives or Plato or, now, have you heard of this Richard of St. Victor?
     Peace out.