In looking for the crevices of convenience, what is your magic number? It's a flavorful perfume that wards off the ghosts of chilling thoughts and stark realizations of lives left flat, chased down ammonia corridors. What is the rational ratio that instills sense to your cosmos? Put a point on it. Put a decimal place to it. While the path to accomplishment is tortuous and often yields few rewards, you still have a driver, an M.O., some catalyst whose pulse is electric enough to spark submission. In seeking balance between the pressures of your paycheck and restoring inner equilibrium, how much should you give of yourself? Will you strive for the quiet den or the strangeness of hands on your shoulder? And this will be divulged because private inventories have become public, so public - how will you recover from the loss of those crevices of convenience? In yesteryear, it was crawling towards a gravestone with never a glance from the mourners next door. Media fucked it up. It used to be so much less demanding.
You send change to the White House and expect everything save a bill of goods, but you give him no legroom by setting tropospheric expectations. Here's to 2009 and moving forward without crushing too many souls in the process. When I close my eyes and you all disappear, what we've done makes little difference because the crises are all fictive and the same. But you demand someone else to pay your bills - of course, you were never liable - of course. If the root cause is irrational decision-making, then no rational course of action would make a difference anyway.
Will a skinny President send his nation's treadmills trundling, or do the citizens respond with Jevonsian disregard? Can laziness, physical and intellectual, be overcome by example? Will people get the measure of existence right this time?