What sounds more fun? Filling in spreadsheets with data for eight hours or coming up with new and exciting ideas? I’ll go ahead and assume you went with option two.
I carry my years without submitting to the regimen of time and its chronology of dates and seasons. I recognize myself living, hands outstretched, in the shade of the almond tree, with white hair and staring eyes unconcerned with the passing hours. My tree and I have entwined our ages in the absurdity of the days. I stride from chapel to chapel between masses.