Angels keep falling on my shed

Too much free time is bad for the soul, and I'm getting edgy about the future. I look not forward to a life of worklessness, worth-and-mirthlessness, too much time spent waiting around for life to happen. My definition of unemployment is sitting around in your underpants at four in the afternoon, eating cereal and reading three week old tv listings. To the outside untrained eye, my life of a magician/actor/writer can be pretty indistiguishable from this.

We are just dust in the machine my friends, so let's clog it up. We wake, we bake, we kick and scrape, in the particles of the sweat of our hands we hold tiny galaxies as we gaze at the moon and the stars above. Time is like sand that pours through our fingers like lemmings from a cliff, each second falling just one more reason to abandon hope all ye who enter here. All we have is the leaves from the trees, the ten or twelve hours we wake up with, nothing else, nothing more, just the breeze on our faces. Let us make the most of our inhalations and spend them not in our underpants, whether they be good or not. I for one shall play in the sun.