An empty day ahead of me. We'll see. I feel like a gutted building, after a fire, and rain. My interior is composed of wet abandoned ashes. I've held on to the life I've lived for as long as I can, and now must contend with the feeling of drifting. It delivers the problem of emptiness, particularly when there is no promise to exchange it with, no tangible hope to leap towards, or into. There is some comfort to be found in perpetual daily misery, doled out in hours clocked. One gets used to it, comes to depend on it, it speaks to the inner ear - reminding, taunting, then reminding again.
Then comes the taunting once more. Emptiness is far from ever being empty.