out of the sky, into the dirt
At home, hiding from the evil gastrointestinal bug that's causing people to throw up like 25 times in the space of an hour. I've never watched a Super Bowl in my life, and I'm not sure it's in my best interest to start now.
The intellect of the man is forced to choose
Perfection of the life, or of the work,
And if it take the second must refuse
A heavenly mansion, raging in the dark.
When all that story's finished, what's the news?
In luck or out the toil has left its mark:
That old perplexity an empty purse,
Or the day's vanity, the night's remorse.
It's misleading to term any artwork "perfect," I think (and you tell me what in the hell a "perfect life" is), but the basic premise is sound. Having spent all my recent time writing, I am now the least interesting person on the web. I was too lame to drink anything at Gabe's last night, and also too lame to go to the Foxhead afterward. I came home and drank four glasses of water and went to bed. I don't do anything! I have nothing to tell you! Go read someone else's site!