It is funny to say "Bukowski is right" but Bukowski is right on his epitaph to tell us not to try. Frankl tells us that our obsessions with our neurosis are in fact the foodstuffs to keep them going. We fear our fear and the fear comes to get us. We expect it, our hair turns white at the onset of this supposition. I am silly and try not to try. My attempts this year at harnessing my thoughts and reckoning with my emotions has been largely successful, however, I am all too aware of the dangers of ultimate control. I lose myself on nuances, crying tears of joy in crowds. I grow angry at the injustice on behalf of a small spider I tried to spare but lost in my hair. All in good fun, yeah?