It's funny, in a terrible way,
that I thought this week was going so well,
felt genuinely happy,
and then, this happened.
I can't pinpoint this, but it started with this creative writing assignemnt I wrote earlier today,
about a woman alone in an empty white room who painted clouds on the walls with her bare flesh.
It took a lot out of me to write it, and i literally felt exhausted after finishing it.
The rest of the day was O.K., and then I finished this book by Philip.K.Dick, Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep,
and started feeling a bit off, so I turned on Rufus Wainwrights new album, lowered my lights, lay down on the floor,
and stayed like that for a bit over an hour.
I was so heavy with sadness I couldn't even move. Felt like my blood was laced with concrete.
Afterwards I read The National Geographic and it made me feel a bit better,
and now I am eating a strawberry and writing this.
Now I'm heading back to my floor I think.
Goodnight, world.