where the writers are

Lately, everything exhibits an air of immaturity, as if maturity is without emotion, as if it can only be achieved by old men whose wives have already passed and whose children have children of their own; who don’t eat very often and whose dogs sleep most of the day.  Is it a mark of achievement that life has come and gone?  That experience is not something to be gained, but instead, is something sitting inside a shoebox in a closet somewhere?  Sitting alone in a house on a Friday night can be comforting, or it can be the opposite.  The passing of time can be an activity, or it can be a reminder of how important time is, an addition to restlessness or an ally to despair.