Sunday is a snow day spent at home, the unaccustomed cold and quiet outside the window a disconcerting echo of my cold, quiet mind inexorably rehearsing present fear and future scenarios of destitution. Hours and hours of this before I'm able to remind myself that actually I don't much want what society tells me I must want and am stupidly putting at such risk. Well, I want it a bit, of course, don't hate stuff, some stuff: clothes, for example, furniture - their shapes and colours, a kind of art; or digital toys for grown-ups, the hardware and software of on-tap words and music. But they haven't proved much comfort, really, in the face of tedium and alienation. The stuff I most want is not for sale: fresh air on my face, an unpaved path for wandering and soil to dig in; a quiet place and time to explore meditation; community, communion with others who dissent. Such a small space these have been squeezed into and now, whilst not crazy enough to completely disdain realism, I need to hook them back up and hold them close, embrace more radical priorities, let the realism be a bit more magical.