Well, this can't go on, can it... This clenching of fists, this marking of days in two hour increments, little moments of autonomy pieced out on the maze trail at precise intervals. These little games, storing up little moments like squirrelled away nuts of time... Cannot. Can't go on, these tortured metaphors...
No, these processions of days, these long empty corridors of time, fogged by dope and familiarity. These empty mirrors. These slow, familiar pauses.
These idiot jobs, this piecemeal earning, these little plots and plans, all this uncertainty. The familiar cycles of thought, of writing, of emotion. Vast circadian miasma, Daniel's "quotidian sorrows," this PROBLEM, this SITUATION, this thing...
klik if you demand tedious explanations of every little thing.
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