I don’t feel human at the moment. I feel like a molting bug, a human-size one. My body is worn and I’m flying at the same time. I’m on a constant high of no sleep and too much coffee: one feeds the other, and I can’t remember which one started the cycle.
All I wanted to do when I got home was sit in this big chair in this back room with a computer in my lap and write. But it’s all just brain dump.
No writing. A shame, since I felt I had important things to tell, the usual stuff about my cockeyed view of the world and life.
(Is today Wednesday? no, Thursday. Thursday?)
I have something profound welling inside me, but I have to let it stew a bit. I don’t know what it is, I just feel it. The words will come. I have no doubt.