The Time Millionaire counts his currency, and towards no particular end.

It seemed like a waste of time: a terrific waste of time, terrific like the original sense of the word, with a kind of ill-feeling awe about it, but there was not much else pushing or trumping or stomping.  Not much else at all, but a replay of the classic Top 40, and one could at least, with nothing else interfering, intervening, pushing at the seams, one could then have the unfettered experience of the music.

Were I a "time millionaire" on a Sunday morning, I would have traded it, feeling I had, that it was unproductive, but away from what end, I knew not.  So there was guilt, but not clear, and the only thing clear was the signal from the radio.

It was a father's day, too, and the father effecting a kind of combination Howard Hughes and Zen Buddhism--that voting Republican that so often agrees with Democrats, in principle, but does that identity politics, and so he commonly jeers them.

And on feeling unproductive, I would frequently find something of the digital variety to do on a Sunday morning, but for that, a man assailed by thoughts, with none taking purchase.  If it were poop, it would be plain to see that none stuck to the wall, but glanced off it and fell to the floor.

But poop too, had some kind of residual value, and even traces of minerals and other matter, but the thoughts of the morning had a kind of mysticism to it--insubstant; perhaps it was okay, after all, that the body rested while the mind floated, disconnected to anything of consequence.  Okay in the sense that I wasn't drowning puppies or strangling orphans or engaged in other kind of malfeasance.

I would relent that an entirely wasted day is something of consequence, as I spoke spoke previously of learning new things being a way to salvage the day.

The pure virtue of the thing, perhaps, is not doing any substantial damage in the meantime, I suppose, that virtue being a trait or handle that leads to a positive outcome, and dismally I aver that not breaking anything, not causing more harm, is certainly by context of being less evil, seems all the more good in the long run.

Perhaps, that void is more of a perfect moment in time than it feels, pure clean and natural, with neither the past pressing, nor the future assailing, but each moment like a casual walk along the shores of eternity--perfectly and nakedly stuck in the current moment.