The magic spell of sheer laziness is hard to conjure away. It does not spring upon you full blast, but creeps on you ever so slowly that the laidback pace in itself is irresistibly enchanting. Its tender warmth first caresses your feet and you feel a rush of pleasure. Then its gentle waves rise slowly, patting your legs with the infinite tenderness of a child masseur. Up our knees, past your waist, the balmy waves of a delectable sloth rise higher and higher, drenching you in the sweetness of ambrosia. Till you are soaked to the bones and so weighed down by the nectar of inertia that you find it impossible to move.It’s a cast iron spell, deceptive in its apparently soothing redolence. Everytime you attempt to shake it off and rise, you are thrown back into inertia by a powerful gust of chloroform. Till you are only too glad to give up trying and resolve to simply enjoy the fruits of sloth: a tumbling basketful of what ifs, when ifs and only ifs; memories, both real and made up; futures, woven in fantasy; passion, human, superhuman and subhuman; the cheerful burial of values; the wanton indulgence of sin.
