…each day feels like starting over. And there are so many things not to care about but that still inflict themselves upon you. When I have a million things to say I barely croak a word. Other people’s lives are a foreign language:  they fascinate yet confuse. Why this weight of the temporal? Like life is a waiting room. Seeing the future but never getting there. And the past looks like disjointed squares quilted by a madman and torn to shreds. It’s so far away, even what’s recent. Anxious compulsions wrap tendrils around restless hands. The bands of time tighten. We’re all settled in now so flip the switch and let us ride the unfinished track to blankness.