It's been implied that it behooves one to be serious. It's been suggested that one take "the work" seriously; to color within the lines, and not dabble in things so personal, or so light, or so real, like failure, or worse, associate with details that might implicate one to be something of a goofus, or a clown, or a facsimile of a carbon-dated entry nobody really wants to mention, as it interrupts the thought processes (on being serious). Upon hearing this enough times, I figure it's just because the thought processes have stopped at a certain point and simply refuse to get 'er done. You see, we staple our exit wounds and electric pathways as quickly as a cookie cutter restaurant or department store replaces a patch of woods or marsh, leaving a pallid stare and something of a hangover of what might've remained previously... an inkling to something more chaotic or tangled, or heaven forbid, disorganized to the human eye. Letting things take natural courses is inherently frightening and bewildering to the tone-takers and bone-clenchers. I reckon, best get on with things, make the best of things while I can, and let the wind blow it through and over thoroughlike. I care little for sawing mountains in half or moons to grope; leaving traces, changing history, or rewriting books, when there's STILL so much to be written? Maybe that's just the problem? It's still a grand verve!