Everyday, I spend time in colouring my work. It even talks to me. The voice comes to me in black and white. I give it a circle, when it asks for a shape. Every night before I sleep, I say good night and it sleeps.
Sleeping work! I love it inside me for ever and ever. Nothing stops me from living with it.
I woke up from my dream into what we call ‘reality’; into the solar day, the roof of my familiar room – in fact into the well-known, often-discussed, but, to my mind, as yet unexplained mystery Universe.
I talked, I shouted, I cursed and yet I ate on time.
Do you smoke? I must admit I smoke. I am glad I smoke cigar. Tobacco has been a blessing to us idlers. A man should have a job of some sort. Those who smoke are far better than who are idle. Men who had no work to do, who could not even smoke started fighting with each other as if that is their work.
What if, work and idleness were right angles to each other? What if they were just parallel lines which never even meet in dreams?
I welcome my soul to loaf. I put a cigar and spread myself over the easy- chair, and cock my legs on to the table and lit the weed. I smoke grabbing all the seriousness of an idler. My soul floats. I rest in the cloud and keep watching all those who work.
Isn’t it difficult to persuade an idler to be busy? Needless to say, it is likewise uneasy to convince the busy to be idle.
Anyone who works might be a fool. We sell our ease and buy the luxury.
I am very considerate about the work I do, it is my possession for years and years, and I haven’t dared to leave my finger print on to it.
A philosophic contradiction: Those who are wise won’t be busy, and those who are busy can’t be wise. The wisest man is therefore who loafs most gracefully.