The great exhale of a weekend. The letting-go. Of caring about what you don’t naturally care about. Give entropy its space between you and everything called work. To follow the surging impulse to whatever. Sing into the mouth of a bottle in the sun. Until all the play becomes your private work. Then back to work on Monday hoping what you accomplish there truly matters somewhere. You know there is work to be done that we share. Your lights come on without you generating electricity. You don’t fetch your water at the river. Those aren’t your friends on the television. You take some work in for that. And what about the starving kids, the pregnant poor and the freezing elderly? What about the lonely and lost? So much work it’s no wonder there are slaves. And who will free the slaves?