Is it a waste of my days to read beautiful books
instead of writing them? To watch fantastic stories
brought to the screen instead of divulging on the page
my own fantastical life experiences? To spend time
smooching with my cat instead of doing the dusting?
To have a long phone call with an old friend, rather than
getting my ironing finished? To ponder the messages
in my Tarot cards while ignoring those in the newspaper?
Will all this leisurely self-indulgence make me old, or
keep me young? The terrible truth is, I’m doing it anyway.
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