No reading. Simple things. Bug reports, emails, and forums for work. Work is a reason to continue. Reading is thought, and thought is energy. No energy. Scratching at the surface of things. Tomorrow morning, refreshed. Good vibes. Life is hard afterward. Those other waking dreams between five o’ clock and ten o’ clock. An angelic handjob from a hand that’s been squeezing cheeseburgers. Something like it.
Debt grows. There’s debts buried deep. Layers of unfulfilled commitments. Promises made in the moment. Layer upon layer. Left to whither on the vine. Failure to launch. No reliability after five in the evening. There’s that debt ceiling. I’m licking the mold of its paint. Tastes like the ocean smells. The mound’s lifting me higher. Adipose tissue isn’t so much liquid as it is blubber. They could light a fire by my remains. Walking along over all that I owe. Dunes.
Bitterness is the strong stuff. God, yes, more. Terribly attractive. Makes me want to hump an older prostitute for ten minutes. Fall asleep. Paralytic. Soother of imbalance. Dullness to being. The sadness of inability to afford company will be so tough. The frustration. No relief.
Sympity is the last thing. The absolute last feather on the wind, come down on top to topple it.