morning thoughts gather.

Friday again? Another working week climbs to the summit of the weekend until, like Sisyphus's boulder, it bounces to the base of the working week again on Monday.

All that people want is the weekend. Desperate to lose ourselves in carnal bliss, drug fueled forgetfulness, or other pursuits, which are visible totems projecting our real needs: to escape the clutches of the meaningless levers we ceaselessly pull or push.

Oh joy! T'is the season when we get a few more days, thrown in our path to stumble along, before we coming crashing down again early in January.

It's all the same: none of it means anything. Yet I know people take it so seriously. Perhaps there is something (another thing!) wrong with me?

So many 'good' folks pour their souls into the Christmas mold which I find mouldy, decayed and corrupted. It seems everything simple and nice has become complicated and charmless? Bah, humbug and I don't care - is it OK for me to eat plum pudding yet?