The (awful) stage of my work at the moment (will never finish) is really driving home (why am I bothering) that time (useless, pointless, garbage, crap) does not (and yet here I am) heal all wounds (and this sure as fuck does not feel like therapy).
Maria Popova at BrainPickings tells me this is how John Steinbeck felt about The Grapes of Wrath, so, as I am not crafting the great American novel, but “just a book,” I’ll probably get over it…
…or, you know. Not.
How are you doing?