Always, I wait too long, then it is too late. My mind races to the day, and I can not catch it.
Writing is done best in the mornings, though I have been awake all night, waiting for it, waiting for the day to force me from bed, to coax me along with collective action. I want more, when I have tired of lying in bed.
My sensibilities are in slivers, shards. This lack of sleep is taking its toll, again. Every morning I ask if I should drink that half pot of coffee. It makes me nervous, queazy, as if inner glass lacerations are opening and re-opening. My father's death changed me. Something within has become detached, lost. I clutch at things, yet can not grasp.
I want more of something, suddenly.
What will ruin me will ruin me.
It's foolish to believe, to think that anyone ever escapes it.
Do what thou wilt shall be the whole of the law.
And why wouldn't it be.
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