I have so much to write about.  At this point I have 16 browser tabs open, not including this one, and a mess (that’s a term of art) of links stored in my Safari reading list.  Topics range from Jenny McArthy and pertussis, to polywater and “pathological science,” to “35 Secret Starbucks Drinks You Don’t Know About.”

Am I writing about them? Clearly not.  Sometimes the problem is not that there is nothing to write about, but there is too much to write about.  It is the problem of the Internet; it is a thief of time and attention.

But that’s the world itself, isn’t it?  There are too many wonderful, horrible, exciting, interesting things to take in.  It’s impossible to know where you are in relation to the universe; it’s too vast and moves with so much speed.

All of which makes me long for reincarnation: there is too much to know before I die. Of course, personal knowledge does not carry past the deathbed, so even if I return, I’ll have to start all over again.

That’s a pity.

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