I'm dying. Maybe in a few minutes. Probably not that soon. But I'm dying. And all I can do is sit here typing.
This blog takes it's name from the setting for O'Neill's The Iceman Cometh -- a lousy gin-mill; a smoked-out, greasy dive where the habitues have all landed, it seems, permanently. Their lives, in each case, are paralyzed by fear and laziness. Like my own.