If there is one thing I might like to accomplish by writing
it's to convince people to leave more time;
to abandon the schedule and the calendar and the glass rectangle.
Work, education, social commitments, and several other culprits
conspire to extend life's text all the way to the edge of the page;
without sufficient margin, where are we supposed to make notes
in each others' books? How are we supposed to ask the questions
that are not answered and won't be answered without some spare
time? Saving time is one thing: planning for retirement or the weekend.
But saving adds more pages to a book with no room for unplanned words.
To spend profligately and as if clocks didn't exist: this is what I ask of you.
Be as an unlined notebook rather than a packed encyclopedia
if I might offer such a way as a suggestion.
Misery loves the busy.
I yet struggle against the dictate: achieve nothing today;
when I do less I have done something beautiful, brilliant.
History has already forgotten where it put the keys;
today remembers itself until the sun goes down and dreams take over.
Will you refer to your scribbles in the margin from ten years ago?
This is the wrong question; were you further embedded in the book when you made that note?
Roman Ryan 