Having nothing to say, and saying it

The mind is empty, which may be a good thing.

Neither asleep or awake.

Perhaps on an island in Greece or in a motel in a small town in southwestern Wyoming, though the white sheets and the arrangment of pillows and the linen slipcovers on the headboard suggest a European provenance.

Memory is of little use at such times.

Better to rise, eat some grapes, pour a little scotch in a clean glass, read someone like Ian Fleming for a few minutes or the rest of yesterday's newspaper.

The last space shuttle is roving around outer space, though outer space is outpacing the poor thing, our knowledge of the dimensions of space now far beyond the capabilities of the tiny capsule to see what we now know; in point of fact (or fiction) the shuttle's perspective of what we now know of the universe is to be compared to a car lifted by a crane 2,000 ft. into the air to survey planet earth.

O well.

Meantime, an ExxonMobil pipe breaks beneath the Yellowstone River in southwest Montana and oil seeps downstream for three weeks. A spokesman for the company expresses great concern. Perhaps it's part of a complex plan to convert the continent from its dependence on clean vibrant freshwater to a more sustainable oil-based ecological system, in which wheat and corn and other crops are nourished by petroleum...

Perhaps it's time to say nothing.

Somewhere on earth there must be a little sleep to be had.