All day, I could not think of anything to write. Having had a awful sleep for no particular reason and a busy and useful day, I had in the back of my mind the idea that I should have something to write about. I have a few ace in the hole topics that I figure I will write about in a pinch, like the pleasure of living in a good apartment building, but I never get around to it. I take some pictures of the dig out back of work in the square. Then, later when I decide to write something, my computer decides to play at freezing around a program now calling itself "Paint (Not Responding)" and I wonder why I bother. So I reboot.

I sometimes think I have achieved much of what I wanted when I was, say, 25. It was not that hard as I apparently decided early on against wealth. It makes me wonder what was so special about 25 that it got to be when you fixed your dreams. I am in a much better place now to decide to do something with my life, having established with whom I will be happily married and who will be our children as well as that I will like food, ska, soccer and napping unreservedly. Seventeen years forward from now at 59, would I like that I spent the time to ratchet my life again? Do something or many things new to be an old hand then, my future me?

Apparently my computer thought I was looking at a picture 4 feet by 4 feet - it was seizing from over-concern with details which were not there. Walls and stairs were there below the parking in the market, part of the building that fell in a fire 140 years ago - butchers' stalls in the cool of the stone basement.