EVER HAVE one of those days where you're pretty sure that you're not doing all you could be doing with your life, in fact, you're almost certain that you're doing exactly the wrong thing with your life, and you're acutely aware of all the redusomes shortening deep within your cells' chromsonal nests, and of tiny ion fountains tick-tick-ticking off the years of your life, while all your Great Works remain entombed within your skull, unexpressed, equal to all the other trillions upon trillions of unrealized hopes and unfulfilled desires of all the other shuffling gray humans, leaving you with nothing spectacular for observation by anyone else, an empty handful of sparks that only you can see, that only you can fan from obscurity into raging fire, but which remain dull orange pocks, like the centers of powdery coals beneath the grease-caked grate of the barbecue grill off of which you've just yanked your overdone London Broil?
No?
Never mind then.
