It is admittedly a small compliment how readily dissolves my mechanical sense, my motor-driven thoughts and emotions. Competing with this uninspired and soulless performance are the careful but manual stringencies of life. The evident contrast between the two is that of routine staging and spontaneous reaction. Paradoxically I evidently respond more readily to the visceral than the repetitive – to the point nonetheless of exhaustion. More disturbing is that I increasingly tire philosophically of the universe beyond my erstwhile automated world. The similarity is likely nothing more dignified than the complaint of an old dog and new tricks – and just as bleak, just as axiomatic.