Overtired, up too late wanting to work, to affect change. Too confused to move. So much with no time. Where to even start? One-hundred lists, one-hundred items long. Maybe three crossed off. If it wasn't for sleep – dammit there must be a way around that shit that doesn't lead to the emergency room. Coffee can't even help now. The simple truth that the insidiously mundane business which coldly takes nine hours each day is not worth the time, should be enough to propel like a human cannon. (Close, but not close enough to the right work - feels like bullshit because it is.)

Sour screaming frustration spilling over, music pounding in the head. Mouse over the delete key again, wonder why not. Delete it all and walk out into the viscous night air, like so many other foolishly rash decisions that left permanent marks. Reflection stares knives back at eyes. This is all wrong. Nothing – nothing is finished. Nothing here is what it should be.

Forward motion must occur, but there's nowhere to go. Any break for freedom subverted by having no possible destination. You could be an early seventies Ali here – ostentatious, invincible – and it wouldn't help one bit. Because of geography, because of the economy. Because you're playing catch-up, like trying to chase down a freight train.