To write poetry, one must waste a good deal of time, one must simply “be,” one must wander around with no particular aim, and it is precisely from such a lacuna that poetry arises. It is hard to explain, like most important things. But in today’s world it has become harder and harder to waste time. Artists are desperate for the simplest thing on earth: being.
— Mary Ruefle
I have finally tapped into the defense of all my bad habits. It is simply peculiar to my profession, this wasting of time. Not self-indulgent. Not self-justifying. Not slothful, lazy, or indolent. Not even divergent, distracting.
Not even slow.
Now, it is the point to be beside the point. I will now proceed to waste time. With impunity.