The air smells of lethargy and my eyes speak indifference.
The internet is slow as slow can be, slower still is the day and has been, yet I complain of the few hours it holds.
What is in my clasp? a list of things that stay true in their form as a list, none of which have been accomplished, much to my fake chagrin.
I hold my fists at the sky even as ennui slowly becomes my champion, with a detached dullness scream mostly inward, half hearted too and complain of nothing.
A slow trudge around the house, a full circle of cosmic lassitude and I come back to where I stood.
A bit of writing which stays still far from completion, a small skeletal sketch of what might be a full drawing and in this half done land I reside, bickering on the inside with a flat jadedness, admonishing myself for everything I wanted to do and yet couldn't, because really I didn't have the energy nor the inclination to get anything done today.
This day, a mere carcass of yesterday, and of this carcass and still more to come we make the most.
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