What was it you were supposed to do? What was it you had time to do? Where was it going, this weekend? Where was it directed? Unto what Great Monday was it pointed like an arrow? Laughter: your hardbacked notebook is open on the pillow in the other room. Laughter: a word document is open in another window. Not a line written. Nothing done. And you have all the time in the world – all the opportunity. All of time, which is to say, too much. All – but already too much; time’s already turned from itself. Laughter: time says: every day is Sunday. Time says: every day is like Sunday.
Lars Iyer's Blog 