Here again
There's nothing like that Sunday morning crash of reality engaging crippling depression and a new found emptiness.
You miserable little prick
I cannot breathe, the clouds are growing and building a pressure that cannot be contained or released. Rolls of transparent thought trickle and serpentine the filthy textures of warm existence. Passages enclose further, restrict what little flow there once was. Electric nails prod and scratch where stones meet. There's an annoying haze on everything.
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