There is a special kind of existential horror that comes creeping in the door when you realise that if you sat down and started reading (or re-reading) every book, novel, comic and magazine you kept in storage around the house, you would not have enough time to finish them all before you died of old age.
I really need to get my shit together, and eat better and do more exercise and all that crap so I can live a bit longer.
Or I could just get rid of some of this shit. I don’t need to hang on to these things, if I’m never going to get there, no matter how pretty they look up on the shelf.
Even though I hope I've still got a few more decades left in me, I think I'll be struggling with this for the rest of my life. Eldritch horrors from beyond the veil don't have anything on this slow sense that we're all running out of time.
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