In Spite of Everything, Yes

Any fool with a roof over his head, food (however shitty) in his cupboard and refrigerator, ears that can hear music and voices, and eyes that can see faces and beauty and suffering; who has a sense of responsibility, a feeling of belonging, of having a family or a community or a tribe that depends on him and perhaps even loves him; who cannot afford a dog or a cat but is blessed with one anyway; who has even a metaphorical leg to stand on, shoes on his feet, a warm bed, clean underwear, running water, a toilet that flushes, books to read, a spoon, a fork, a reasonably sharp knife, a handful of dishes and pans, a chair to sit on, a window that looks out at the world, hands and feet and arms and legs that still (somewhat) function, the occasional opportunity to do something that feels like meaningful work; a cracked and compassionate heart, a brain that is still capable of manufacturing sense (even if only occasionally) and that cooperates, however gracelessly, with his tongue and dispatches words to his fingers; any fool whose fingers can still grip a pen, who still has access to blank sheets or scraps of paper and who continues to feel compelled to say something; anybody, in other words, who has lived a good, long while on the planet and feels things ever stirring in his head and heart, who is still capable of experiencing the regular surge of desire, and who has ever felt moved or obliged or even sick at heart, any such person should spend at least half of whatever time he has left in this merciless and stunning world sitting still in a dark, quiet place and saying nothing but thank you.