I shouldn't have seen the car accident yesterday, it fucked me up. I had a nervously friendly day at work. I chatted more than usual, acted overly for most of the day, stumbled with simple, uninventive sentences. When I arrived home I felt emptied, anxious, jumpy. The evening spent fighting off the slightest of sounds, of which there were many, each scratching at my tension wires. The imagination demands too much of us, then provides what it lacks. I don't do well with it at all times. It relates somehow to my longtime counterbalancing of recklessness and obsession, though I'm never fully sure how. As I get close it diverts my attention to something that I am hopelessly irresponsible for. My life since puberty and then adolescence, spent cautioning myself to little gain, no one seems to have noticed that. It must not have worked. Chant the mantra of stillness, it only keeps me from running, sometimes. When running, I can't seem to stop. In that preoccupied state I am competing against some thing, a thing that doesn't seem to know any better, either.