Where Dreams Are Made

Right now I should be writing the minutes of a forgotten meeting. Right now I should be reading Kurt Busiek and Alex Ross's Marvels. Right now I should be on my way home. Right now I should be sleeping. Right now I should be talking with a friend, waxing philosophical on the nugatory elements of life. Right now I should be lazing about a beach. Right I should be letting a couple of Strong Ice beers calm my nerves. Right now I should be watching a film that would change my life. Right now I should be developing theories that would answer the truth to the number 42. Right now I should be discovering a buried civilization, or a fading constellation. Right now I should be playing the guitar and the jazz chords that I've just recently learned. Right now I should be having dinner at home, or at least preparing for dinner, given that right now is only five to seven. Right now I'm nearly at my wits' end trying to figure out why right now I'm doing something that I shouldn't be doing.

Right now I shouldn't be blogging because right now I should be writing the minutes of a forgotten meeting. Shit, "right now" is right now because it can't exist any other moment. And right now just had to suck majorly, the ugliness resonating across multiverses, and I'm caught in a recursive pattern of ill luck. Because before "right now" was "right now". And now it's still "right now". When will it end?