Days seem to pass by, and we don't get done what we meant to. Boy, do i have to remember enjoying the moment. Sometimes it can take a whole day to put up a fucking shelf. With this shelf, you can move all the crap off your desk so you can finally write that script/novel/joke/song/haiku/or long overdue moral inventory.
But you don't have the right screws. You can't find the drill. Someone borrowed the drill. You meet them for coffee. You eat too much and need a nap. The drill battery needs charging, so you check your email. Deleting spam. Signing another npr petition. Friendster birthday emails. Miscellaneous emails from crushes and exes about new bands and old albums (respectively). The accountant emailed you about the tax extension and you have to find a receipt from 1990. You realize you've met people born in 1990 who already play guitar better than you. Get to the gym, pick up the veggie box, do a set. The sun has set behind clayton street and the shelf is sitting, waiting for your gentle touch. But, shit, it's too late. Sleeping roomates don't like the loud purr of an electric drill. Tomorrow a shelf, the day after, the world.