There aren't enough hours in the day to finish all the work, there never were. I wonder if people in their dying breaths think of things they still have to do. Maybe breath itself appears as work to me. So would the beating of the heart. Death is no escape, it is the end and so we never escape work. But work is fine.

It is cold now. I am efficient in cold and heavily distressed in heat. Summer's are annoying and taxing on my outgoing abilities. The cold rejuvenates me, perhaps it is because of my solitary nature. In winter people escape the streets, gardens and trails - they are hidden away. The social institutions are blowing steam from their chimneys and for that reason the street lamps are essentially pointless. Which is where I come in. My pointless existence in perfect harmony with the light of this new world. The cold seeping through my forehead, relaxing my over-sensitive conscience - to surrender my passions to the world.