something blocks me. I'm a flightless bird. I'm the embodiment of dreaming, I'm the non-realization, a plot on a grand scale unconnected with life. I'm what's unsaid, undone, underreacted.
I'm written out in weekday timetable to keep the remnants of common sense.
I'm glued together for the time being, for the rationality's sake.
an unexploded bomb.
a retired miracle.
the doctor told me I'm depressed. in the past, she said, people made art out of it, but now they bury it in pills.
also, my metabolic age is sixteen.
I guess my weltschmerz is just as old.
spring starts to chirp. kurwa.
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