It’s one of these days that has an edginess, in the gray skies above, amid the motes that dangle in the stuffy air indoors, and inside the lethargic confusion within. A heavy futility settles upon you, and you fidget, knowing whatever you do isn’t of any importance, and you sink further in your scattered reverie as you realize any signification in your actions is a mirage. A directed aimless wandering with the primary concerns of the bodies food, sex, sleep in mind, and everything else is a just a irrelevant distraction we play at until the grave: an assured self-conscious strut in the street, finger-pricked tingle of pride in a small patch of embroidery, a heated weapons summit with big guns rooting for bigger guns, the turmoil of two lovers fracturing in a world-wreaking drama, the wolfish gaze of a politician upon his flock. Actions as physical objects in the mind, not quite different from the greed of consumerism. Moments are possessed by all as having intrinistic value and the utmost importance. Amid all the futile dramas of our vanity, there seems to be more worth–no, relevancy–crammed in a moment of minor Confucianism: man who eats a lot of carrots will shit orange.