At five-thirty on a Wednesday I don't often have much to say.
It is grey out. Yesterday right about this time, we were hit with another one of those monsoon rains. I walked home in a hard rain.
It seems like everyone around me is either a) struggling with the question, "what does it mean to be me," or b) ignoring the same. I wonder if this is true for most of the United States, the West, and the world.
Give me your thoughts. Is this introspective glare a product of idealized American individuality, or is it part of the basic human condition? What do you think?
I have been meaning to write a story or two. I haven't.
