“Here I am, an old man in a dry month...”
I am a snow baby. I find sunshine and warm weather to be very trying; they contribute to my mood’s increasing nigrescence.  I was recently talking with one of my dear friends about the potential of others.  There are a certain number of persons, myself amongst them, who have been cruelly given the perspicacity to see people not just as they are, but also as they might be: the ability to take full measure of a man; to see his full potential.  While this can be quite exciting in children, it is very frustrating in adults.  You see what a person *could* be doing with their lives, and at the same time see how they have settled for less.  This brings with it the temptation to be angry with the observee, though of course, it is a senseless anger.  One can never truly see one’s own potential, and it is usually pointless for someone to try and convince another to strive for greater heights. In situations like this, it becomes exceedingly apparent that advice, particularly unsolicited advice, is worthless; no one ever takes it anyway.

Too tired.  Too old.
 

P.S.  If you want to make me suddenly lose interest in a book, describing it as a "luridly intimate memoir" is definately the way to go.

I’ve also put a new post on Don’t Forget This Poem. 

Quote of the day:
“There are places in the heart that do not yet exist; suffering has to enter in for them to come to be.”
          ~Leon Bloy

And now, for your moment of zen: