Today whipped by growing pressures that are all around me I am in a state of indecision, and have little time for reading something I desperately have been waiting for. There are so many book, so many newspapers, journals and magazines. But time constraints are over me, and I cannot stretch time. Money I can stretch, and the environment can be re-created, but time is something we can not make.

Of course I wan to see the beauty of nature, hear the voices of people, and be with the exotic things on earth. When I turn to books, they give me second-hand knowledge, something dry and desiccated. I am glued to the Idiot Box to see the rural setting not the village it self.

Now I am completely spiritually a hollow being, and my mental chamber is stuffed with husks. When I program my mind with all dead and dull ideas and out of such ideas emerge something, not new but a mix of all nonsense and I call it creativity. There is no creativity.

As a write all I do is engage in simulating, coping, and blending. I do not create anything and I keep on stuffing my minds with the software of nonsense and keep on retrieving them.

Farmers, laborers, scientists are real creators and I am simply a duplicator, a copier or distorter, and nothing else.