Finally have the ability to sleep. Can't sleep. Sartre on the brain. Not really. Pushing myself to delirium.
Waiting, waiting.
Within days of snatching up some work ethic, it sneaks away. None lingers. It is not my friend.
Lately I've been pushing people away. Few exceptions. Very few. One.
Ich Angst bin.
Body angled on a couch too small. Obtuse. Greater than ninety degrees.
Heavy boots.
Cacophony. Coffee maker.
Gnawing bits of nail and skin. I wonder how much skin I've swallowed.
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