I Loathe Computers More And More, So

Certainly, For Time Out Of Mind, An Obsessive Dwelling On Happier Former Days Has Been Synonymous With Getting Older, While It Was The Juvenescent Who Rushed With Open Arms To Embrace The Future.

Nowadays, My Mood Ungoverned, I'm Free To Think The Most Outrageous Things, Such As: Might It Not Be A Good Idea To Insist That Drug Companies Give Their Preparations Names That Tell The User What They Really Do?

The Novelist, Quite Rightly, Fears The Psychoanalyst As Both An Enemy And A Usurper.

Well, I Wanted To Be A Philosopher, Which Is The Idlest Occupation In The World. I Wanted To Be Involved In Abstract Thought, But Because Of Various Problems With The Authorities I Wasn't Able To Pull That One Off. A Lifetime Of Idleness In Academia Would Have Really Suited Me. So I Was Thrown Out, As It Were. Other Than That, There Seemed No Possible Idle Occupations, So Writing . . . Although Writing Isn't Exactly Idleness. There's An Enormous Tension Between Indolence And Languor.

I'd Rather Fiddle With My Phone For Precious Seconds Than Neglect An Apostrophe; I'd Rather Insert A Word Laboriously Keyed Out Than Resort To Predictive Texting For A - Acceptable To Some - Synonym.