Helpless

Neil Young will NOT get out of my head. And I just dropped a piece of lettuce from a charity salad down the front of my shirt. I've just been accused of sitting on a FedEx package for two months before sending it, which I did not do because that would be ridiculous. There is a Picasso show coming up and of course that means the WORLD IS ENDING. Ick. I'm in a kind of doldrum-feeling afternoon, where I'm sitting here motionless and inspirationless and with a very distinct treading water kind of inertia setting in. Gotta keep moving, keep working, keep writing. Make some phone calls, maybe. I hate phone calls.

All I really want to do right now is spend some quality alone time with myself, figure some things out about my place in everything that's happening and how I FEEL about it, but there's no time except for these long afternoons at work where I'm not really at any kind of liberty.

So, I've decided to just say fuck it, and start singing the song in my head out loud and screw the clients and art appreciators. I have a good voice; they can deal with it. I will also share it with you, hypothetical reader:

"Blue, blue windows behind the stars,
Yellow moon on the rise,
Big birds flying across the sky,
Throwing shadows in our eyes.
Leave us...
Helpless, helpless, helpless..."