I just don’t see the point of making the bed after I get up. The Sisyphean aspects of the pointless task do not worry me; such is the nature of our miserable human existence.
Are you happy with how much you weigh? If so, well done. If not, please understand that it has literally nothing to do with your worth as a human being.
I want to see galaxies smash together, and stars burn down planets. I want to see things I could have never imagined. Science Fiction has the answer.
The late evening light turns a milky blue as it casts across the gleaming white marble of the opera house. Designed to look like an iceberg, floating in the Oslofjord, the building is a marvel.
I have nurtured dreams of writing for a living for as long as I remember. As long as they were dreams they could not collapse. Then I couldn’t contain the genie in the bottle any longer. Words came out.
It starts as it always does. Planning has taken months: the whole thing now feels more like an intellectual exercise in exploring distant cities through the magic of the internet than it does a holiday. Then, with a queasy bump, it is upon you. Grab your bags; get to the airport. Now.
I have a dilemma: I want there to be a political party for whom I feel happy to put my cross in a box, but there isn’t. Not in this election.