Something terrible is happening, has happened, which is, sans an unsuitable object it seems I have nothing to write for. How did this happen? I didn't know I was so lyric. I feel depressed. Not at the lack of, but at the apparent fact of. It can't be true. My eros is bored, is sleepy. I'm bored. I'm so busy I can't think, and I'm calling it bored? I like my mind, it must be that which I miss---my not-too-distant, not-too-available mind has vanished in the crush of ridiculous detail. I can't think, therefore I can't love, therefore I can't write, therefore I can't love! not inappropriately, or excessively, or abusively, or goodly, or crushingly, covertly, overtly, wonderfully, fully, adverbially, slowly, embarrassedly, endlessly. I'm fucked. I'm status quo'd. I'm dead.
Kiss me, wake me