The futility of it all

I'm trying to think of a good reason why I'd want to continue blogging.

Over the last three days, I've been under immense work pressure, and what with the electricity acting up, I'm in a lousy mood.

And I've discarded several attempts at a post. Every time I start, I feel especially snarly, and sneery.

I feel, in fact, like one of those tall, dark, handsome, moody heroes who drop their heads into their hands in Wodehouse books and groan piteously, their souls wracked by the weight of the world's sorrows.

But I'm no hero; hell -- I'm even the wrong gender for herodom -- and my soul ain't wracked by anything more earth-shaking than a very bad mood.

All of which is to say, unless I snap out of it, expect a looooooooong. silence. The thought that someone somewhere is waiting anxiously for me to deliver another gem for them to marvel at is stressing me out too much.

And, just as an objective correlative for all of the above, here is Escher's Drawing Hands.