|Current music:||radio babble|
we can make it better sometimes...
I'm not entirely convinced. I'm at the age now, where things need to matter. The words that spill out of my fingers to the pen don't seem to gel. Gel. Like jam, or honey maybe. Flow. Like water. Clear, clean, tasty water.
I'll always look back.
Pouring rain this morning, but it turned misty as I was leaving the house. Wore my special waterproof Rocketdogs today, but it doesn't matter. Could have worn ballet slippers and it would have been ok. Grey jeans, black long sleeved tshirt, hair down and everywhere. Grey knit hat, black rain coat. Invisible makeup on my eyes, so I don't look like I'm trying to go cold turkey.
I wish I could take a month off, lay about the flat in my underwear. Surf the net for information, listen to bad 80's rock, 90's rock. Prince.
Not this Frankie says Relax business that is currently on the office radio. Placement has started. I stagger out of bed every morning (well, for the past 4 so far), and sit there staring at the wall for about 20 minutes while the caffeine sinks in. I've been wanting to hit the wine this week, but have been shattered every evening so I plod on home, eat some crackers and bury my head under the pillow before falling asleep.
I pack cucumber and tomatoes for lunch. Oranges that are shaped like lemons (confused fruit?). The running narrative in my head has taken on it's Irish accent, and has started substituting words and phrases. It's funny.
Maybe sometime I'll tell you.
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