The working week begins and the intellect sleeps

My friend is off in mid-Italy being led around the cultural highs and lows - monuments, facades, horsemeat and offal.  No doubt with a glass or three of the local wine.  I'm counting down the weeks to bed-bugs, blessings and blisters on the Camino de Santiago.  I hope I'll witness the resurrection of my Spanish - lately rendered dumb.

The work-life balance has become a write (and play) - sleep balance.

I've taken to falling asleep on the train coming home from work these days.  A symptom of hectic days / nights fighting the need to go to bed.  (Let's rhyme) Soon I'll be dead (don't laugh, so will you) and nothing will remain, save memories and a useless laptop to which nobody has the password.

But there's hope of immortality: I scribble down thoughts.  (I even cheekily try to paint with words - my most successful abstract being the result of an accident with the paint-pot and our pet donkey - not a great idea in a small flat, but what do I know?.) 

There's a good chance that anyone reading this is doing the same. Our words are out there and some might even survive us.

Actually, is that really why I write?

Chaos descends. 

I just do it.  Maybe I like the sound of my own narrative.  This could be a whole Web site of megalomaniacs soaking up the world's data storage.  Speaking of which....

Books are not such a bad idea, after all.  If there should be a nuclear conflagration - in the unlikely event ("Brace, Brace") - magnetic / electromagnetic media will most likely be wiped.  Away from the local suns, however, the odd copy of "Just Parson Thru" might just make it to be used as kindling by survivors of the holocaust. 

(Oh, yeah.  Good point.)  Or maybe arsewipe. 

I think I'll go to bed.