My mind is going so slowly.
Signs are peeling themselves off walls, and doors are too tall. Counters are holding up Shakespeare pairs, and narrativity claims that morality must play some part in psychological disorder, when the demonic is real but what paradigm do you think is most true?
There's only one thing I want to write, and it's not one of these four papers. It starts with a "Dear Kevin," and ends with a "Love, Matt."
I'm sitting in a house filled with tea and cidar, soup and waffles, lovely friends. But even this, it makes me think what if?
I am restless: that's the word. I never want to go to bed, I never want to sleep in. I never want to go to class, to work. I never want to read, to write papers, to discuss. I never want to stay in one place. This isn't like me.
I don't know for what I'm longing.
I'm scared to fill this space with something that's wrong.