I was going to 'treat' my self to a little rant about post modernism but it seems churlish having been pointed to some first world war poetry. Dealing with call centres, fragmented companies and other aspects of decentered twenty first century life is luxury compared to war.
I find reports of war too painful. If only I could stay aware of how fantastic it is not to be part of real pain when dealing with tedium. I have some spaciousness which obviously contains the feelings but wonder if I'll ever just thoroughly enjoy all of it. Umm.
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