"It was Janus, 'the stout guardian of the oak door,' who kept out Cardea and her witches...." That, at least, has a certain drama to it. Lately, the choices that I've had to make, and I think they're important choices, are couched in the too comfortable numbness of the day and, maybe, my age.

What to do with the way I make my living, what to do with the way I live -- alone, few friends other than at work, spending more time than I should, perhaps, keeping this journal -- what to do with the days and the weeks and the years (one hopes) to come now that the traditional goals and responsibilities of my youth are gone or less relevant? Play with computers? Shoot photographs? Herd cats? I'm not yet ready to hang up my shoes, yet I stand at the door and the door is open. And I don't move.

The head was cobbled together with an image of a Roman coin copped from a web site out there somewhere and a photograph I shot last week except I didn't use the photograph I shot last week.
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