all the wasted time. hours as long as southern summer heat stifling. it's hard to breathe under all those hours.
sometimes i get home and look around the apartment and know i should tidy up after spending the entire weekend out of the house. my eye can't land on anything: the papers on the desk; the cords on the floor; the stack of books on the footstool; the clothes cradles in the chair; the unmade bed. i sigh and leave it all there suspended.
a swirling madness all around me - that's what my apartment can feel like. colors and shapes and blurs and sensations; a cyclone like the hitches and switches and flips and connections i can feel pop and jolt in my head. sometimes everything gets done in segmented swooshes of activity, regimented, regulated, easy. time seems steady, trickling forward in every direction all at once, a stream banked by my own consciousness. then sometimes whole rooms and whole days get swallowed up by the hours, the by the minutes, my head swollen with seconds. nothing seems possible. i couldn't lift a finger. i couldn't drink a cup of tea. there isn't time.
these are the worst days.