All too frequently this mortal coil presents itself as a conveyor belt of choices. Drink or drive, rant or rave, poem or polemic, wastrel or worker, wolf or whore, stoic or stoned, pilgrim or pistoleer, fucked or favoured, fear or Fender, barroom or barricade, deacon or dog-boy, chaos or conformity, hawk or handsaw, seer or songbird, carrion or carry-on, foreman, follower or maybe fool? Or serf or surfer, referee or renegade, mistress or miscreant, Saracen or slave, harm or harmony, hero or villain? Should we find ourselves driven to the random and overused refuge of Ecclesiastes 3:1 and that ancient need to believe that for everything there is a season, and a time to every wretched purpose under the heaven? A time to be born, and a time to die; a time to kill, and a time to heal? Wither points the complexity of signposts for souls without roadmaps. Weep or laugh; mourn or dance; rend or sew; keep silence or speak; embrace or refrain from embracing. A time to love, and a time to hate; a time of war, and a time of peace; it never ceases.
Clock here for Bob
The secret word is Please