A god-damned hope for the best possible things to happen.
Coupled in a symbiosis with the thoughts of each worst possible possible fate.
The moment when you decide that you are actually stuck in some sort of cyclical neurosis of bad decisions and laziness, thinking. . . sleep must be the answer to my problems. I must sleep.
14 hours, 16 hours, 20 fucking hours. . . sleeping. . . . . . waking up to piss, eat, and smoke; and sleeping. Procrastinating 'til the very last moment, and even then not really caring if the task was accomplished.
Where am I? What is this? My destination has been a blur; yet now, my mind's aperture is focusing.
My future-frames are sharpening.
Yet still. . I'm sleepy.
So many more hurdles to jump, so many more obstacles to maneuver around.
Shit's hitting the fan soon, it's past time to start marching. . . .
