Wednesday, August 10, 2011

3, Almost 4.

3, almost 4.


Still good for an insomniac, i guess. I slept late, and got little, and cant go back. Because i don't feel like getting more. From the moment i awoke, dozing off is the last thing i would want to do.

I think my writing is suffering. My fingers are lazier, heavier. And my head cant be any cloudier. This post is bad, but i don't want to waste the mood i got off the lack of sleep. Also, my brain needs some jumping, i feel its jammed. All things considered, i feel terrible.

I feel terrible that even sunshine -gilded sheets of glorious silk, made me feel like bitching early in the morning. I have gotten worse. Maybe sleep is that important.

And no one is helping me get over my angst. People are either busy or not talking to me. This small paper I'm writing is all i have right now. But I'm not about to pat myself on the back or kiss myself.

I feel bad, like a piston seeded with gravel and mud; like cogs stuck with chicken heads. Like nothing is going to be worth a smile.

Im going to retire for a bit now.

Fuck i am not even hungry nor horny.


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