Inspiration elsewhere

Every now and then the absurdity of my existence bursts on me afresh. There is that French existential sense, ie, M. Camus (how cool was he?) and his Sisyphean metaphors and the question of why we don't just kill ourselves this instant; but at the ridiculous end of it, there's me, sitting at my computer trying to make things up. Why? Why do I do this? And the answer floats back, like Echo... "