I keep thinking that I’m too dry to cry, or at least wishing that I was.
There are no words. Only a silence deafening to the ears, echoing throughout, words that may actually exist but can not form properly in my mind. A restless silence creeping around like Nosferatu.
No closer to understanding what is brewing inside. No closer to cracking the code, solving the labyrinth of clusterfuck confusion, leaving only this altered state.
One day at a time.
How useful that advice wishes it was. As if there’s another way to experience the passage of time.
. . .
No nectar… no meaning. No semblance of an established order. No priorities of any importance. No thoughts with cohesion. No other.
attempting in earnest does nothing but frustrate. out of reasons.
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