River Wissey Lovell Fuller

The Lonely Philosopher

March 2001

The thoughts of a man drifting off to sleep

You may or may not know that I play the guitar. My daughter watched me do this the other evening, and asked if my fingers had eyes on the ends, as I did not watch what they were playing. I have decided to write this article with the same blind instinct (Which may account for the spelling.)

I am sitting in my lounge all alone. My family has gone to bed, and Holst's Jupiter has just seduced me from the stereo. I broke out uncontrollably into a smile as the music reached a crescendo. I do not know why, and I do not care. I smile, therefore I am.

Today, I went for a walk up to the river at half past seven. My daughter came with me to keep me from being lonely. The snow was long gone, but the birds were singing, and the wind was blowing. She pointed out that she had missed children's telly by going out for a walk. I pointed out that the birds were singing and the wind was blowing. She did not really see that as adequate compensation. She frowned, therefore she is,

I have also been to work today. My daughter came with me (to keep me from being lonely), after which I fell asleep on the sofa, which shows you should never mess with your body's metabolism by going for a walk up the river at seven thirty in the morning.

The embers of my fire are dying, and this seems like a suitable point to go to bed and leave the magazine for others to pump.

Good night one and all.

Robin Ford

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