Zonked Keysmash


Too tired to write. Nothing but unfinished thoughts. So physically and emotionally drained. It is strange, though, that this feels good. To have everything out on the table. Eyeing worries face-to-face. Not caring much. Wanting to care, or trying to, at least. It’s a dangerous kind of tired.

In other words, this is my attempt at a fine post (not a poem, not a metaphor, just something with no end):

Thoughts trailing off, out into some land yet to be or the unknown—

I would have—

The piano had a—

Autumn is like—

Who knew? 


There’s no sense in—

We are anew,

we are gone.

Today is a beautiful day


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