Once I noticed a great writer, and he had no comments. To remedy this occluded justice, I left a colorful comment upon one of his best. Immediately a scathing message appeared from him, Though he had never messaged me before; I had an instant moment of understanding Of why he had no comments; it was just too obvious For my childlike mind to have avoided the trap. A few more condescending messages, And I deleted the comment; nothing more needed saying. I had trespassed on hallowed ground, I had merely to retrace my steps And all should be forgiven.
I intruded upon your life, which I could never really see, Through a series of locks and channels It remained invisible to me. And again I invaded privacy, caused consternation. Compliant, I withdrew all my excursions to your door And with an effort, I mitigated any unhappy Emotions remaining there. I do this to spare everyone more pain. But it comes at a price.
Did you ever wonder how all the people Who go to the grocery store on Sunday mornings Could have such well-defined niche lives? They think they are defined by what they do, By a synthetic order that's tacked over the hours of freedom. There is an affliction, in which every single hour Must be made to account for itself.
But what if they woke up some day Before the grocery shopping was done, Would they feel they had missed out on something Inestimable and uncommon; worth sleeping in for- And replaced it merely with something Utilitarian and predictable? Be careful what you trade your Sunday mornings for.