I am reading Malcolm Gladwell’s blink. I haven’t had the patience for fiction recently. The last piece I was able to start and finish in a few days like I used to when I was guided by the fictitious worlds of authors was Mr. Caroll’s Alice in Wonderland. Non-fiction takes up most of my reading now, and poetry. From what the most recent stats I remember reading about say, I am the anomaly. If the statistics are still as my memory tells me, only poets, teachers, and the students that are assigned the poems, read poetry in the 21st century. This short attention span is why another blog is now up. Is the pace of our impulsive existence a Sign of the Times as one of my Princely musical fathers recorded, or has the appearance of this jagged, jittery, and scattered genre calculated to fit the same, too much info, nothing is forbidden knowledge, Look what I think, mentality? Perfect example–I am bored already: distracted, looking out onto the traffic on Interstate 5 out my window. What’s going on in San Diego and San Francisco? I think this the beginning of a beautiful friendship, Louis. Out.