Sometimes I'll be driving down the interstate, or watching a show.

I'll be driving down the interstate, and it's night, and I'll look at a building off to the side and see in its entrance a huge limestone column, with a fountain at its base full of smooth, creamy rocks, and the bubbling of water. I'll be watching a Twilight Zone episode, and it'll be about a totally desolate earth, save for one man, and that one man goes into a movie theatre, and a movie is playing.

I'll be driving, and I'll see a limestone column in a building, and I'll wonder, Would that column ever get boring, would that column bring some serenity to the dullness of a workday? And I'll be watching a Twilight Zone episode, where there's only one man left on the planet, and he goes into a movie theatre, and a movie is playing, and I'll wonder, Would I sit in the middle of the theatre or on an aisle chair, if it was just me and me alone on the planet, and I only wanted to glimpse the movie.


But the sad part about all this, is, I drove down the interstate twice, saw that limestone column twice. I watched that Twilight Zone episode twice.

And I just couldn't help it, I just couldn't shake it. Because for both times, I thought the exact same thought, twice, verbatim.

So between the first and second times, I didn't change, not a single bit. And that's sad.