Fwump. Fwump, fwump, fwump, fwump. The sound of the resilient winter runners shoes plodding on the packed snow provided a nice soundtrack for this afternoon's surprisingly lonely walk home from the gym. Just over the rhythmic steps I could hear the sounds of Colin Meloy's vocals, yearning in desperation, crooning over fiddle and steel peddle in the closing bits of The King is Dead, the new album from the Decemberists.

The days are long now, and much is being packed into them. I never realized that I had time to actually do all that I am doing now until I become conscious of how I spent my time, reducing the bad television, with the obvious exception of the O.C., and the colossal and cataclysmic productivity pestilence, Facebook. One quick look at the home page, the statuses of certain friends, and maybe the occasional link- that's enough.

But with a belly full of Gary's, a body well-worked through back extensions and bicep curls and ab rippers, that too-common, human, all-to-human tired begins to descend, lowering eye lids, slowing fingers, stopping...