Before driving words to work this morning I had answered my txt, email and tweet messages and all the portals to my hand delivered mail lay flaky framed in brown, in white, across the passenger seat – proof of my index finger’s equal enthusiasm to help my world connect.
But attention spans fall.
Time to muse shrinks.
Ramblers gets left behind.
Anything beyond a meme is verbose.
So. my morning – reading and authoring.
My afternoon – sketching and designing.
My evening – eating, then placing torn envelopes and junk mail onto the compost and hearing that someone’s launched some of their waste into outer space. It’s a scale thing – some black hole will consume and recycle it for dinner in a few million years.
But before going to sleep, I faced this question of causing waste rather than recycling everything, by writing about the way things may go, if we go on the way we are: