day six week fortyone two thousand and fifteen

it seems like night yet the light of day reflects off of the glazed balcony next door. It is saturday, day of resuscitation, day of futile attempts to get projects done that were meant to have been done years and years ago.
Day of rest. No, there will be nothing done if today is wasted. Virtue, value,veritability. Truthe and beauty.

Furnished room, contents of the schoolbag on the floor. Son in room, doing his minecraft. With the speed and economy of practice running his left on the keyboard and his right on the mouse, a whirling image of a landscape of blocks on his screen, tunnels, and basic logical constructs, a sort of transistor running on the screen in a software, in turn running on a browser working under an operating system run by some bios, the whole lot running on a mass of wires and components, the local hardware.
Powered by the atomic reactor that steams at five in the morning, visible from the railway platform on the working weekday.
Get the clothes on find the computer, right.
Write.
Make coffee.

It is not easy, but it is all we have, and what we have is so much more than so many can even dream of.
It is not our fault and it is not our doing.