The world cools slowly, never asking me even a moment for my views. The sun tumbles off, and the electric fan rattles, and my eyes are dull and dim. I left work an hour later than scheduled, because I live the sort of life that always rates last-- the other kind. My time is barely worth paying for; my time isn't even hardly worth wasting. And my skin bears a slow traffic crawl sun burn, my tongue the furrows of saying the same thing too much. And there are no songs playing. No one is waiting up for me.
There isn't any place left. There is nowhere to go. Travel isn't a balm for the ache of living too long in this sick skin. The only cure for this sort of life sickness is more living, and the medicine sounds as bad as the disease. Nothing to say, no words that work. Just that one last painting, that color field to drip impact upon some wall or pillow. Even paying what is due finally too expensive.
It is all these same themes. It is always that same day, the comic terror of the inevitable. This wretched repetition. These days, hinted at and explained, that never should have been. Would that the bullet could go backwards. Would that never could have happened on time.
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