Here is your four weeks off:
Now go write that fucking book you’re always on about.
Your kid could have painted that abstract masterpiece so now,
with your guidance, is the chance. Fill the museums of your
All of those house concerts aren’t going anywhere but they’ll clog
the ether forever.
Sing! Sing! And not just in the shower – sing all day long and
don’t be phased whatsoever. Set your iPhones to record – you might
Nature photography, new gardens to cultivate, new regimes to consider
and the time to ponder shaking off the shackles of the fiscal dams
and drains – make a new world. Order online…. essential items only.
All those books were never going to read themselves – and they can’t
look as good on the shelves with no one coming around to visit. Get
reading. Re-reading. Skim to your heart’s content. Skim to suggest
the money was at least well spent.
You don’t need to stand too far apart from your Netflix cue. Get right
in there where the truth is hiding.
The sun is shining, you are still breathing – your bubble will not burst
if the only surfing you do is on the internet.
Time is meaningless now. It’s gone. We put the clocks back, we should
have just put them in the cupboard with the old jug-chords and those
spare phone adapters and chargers.
There went your four weeks…the world is now back on.
I hope you were good making all that art you otherwise would not
ever have had the time to start.
And how many people did you tell to get fucked online? How many
cunts posting cat-pics got in the way of you making that masterpiece?