An enormous, languorous writer's block has perched itself upon me; I soar on the edges of ecstasy, whimsically jogging through my neighborhood (in jeans, no less!) and buying Dickie thirty (not that many) kinds of vegan treats, and it was just yesterday that I was that girl who'd discovered Schopenhauer is her guardian angel - I drink bottles of wine, I drive my own core tranquility away with my centrifugal capriciousness.
It's another deliciously deciduous day here in Golden Hill country. I know I've been uninspired and bland lately, like a soggy cracker, like flat soda. I walk to and fro, fritter here and there, and my brain slides backwards.
I can feel my ribs wrapping around me, holding me in...
... heart stuttering.
I. Don't. Know. How. To. Feel. Or. Think.