A pregnant pause. Illness, of sorts. I am shadowed by the dusk, and orange streetlights, their luminance squared and quartered across my room. My mind has a shallow guilt worrying it, annoyance at some factors under my control; and those totally outside control. Complacency, in a word. Arrogance in its own frame.
A weakness, thrown wide open because of innocence, child-like, in the manner of petty theft, escaped once to break open the safe of an unsuspecting bank, or to smash open the window of another car. My weakness is laziness. My diary remains blank, as though this month has not caused my mind bother or trouble at all. It is an attack on my past, this insolence, this silence. Walking into silence whilst flicking through the pages of the day, it should not be allowed.
Granted, what free time do I enjoy? By the graph of my spending habits, you’d imagine more allowed than would be good for me. And your solution, your prescription? It would be ignored. If you listen to a third of what I say, says the Old Wise Man, you’d be better.
Swig down the medicine, and return to sleep.