My glasses are broken and a resulting tension headache has creeped into the back of my brain.
My sleep clock feels like it only has a minute hand.
I'm drinking diet cherry Dr. Pepper in the dark, pounding out inane pseudoinsights about great literature and taking mental inventory of the furniture I'll need to build myself from lumber and paint and bloody, bruised knuckles when I move out of this house in two days.
I wish I could write in past tense sometimes. Or future tense.
Just something different.