That is, I think it's not too bad...
Right now, every thing's a storm in my head. I don't miss home, yet there is a person back home that I miss so, so much. Then there's this story, due in 24 hours, that I have yet to start collecting any solid information about. And all the people that I've seen this week, they're all running through my head, every face, every expression, and I can't help but feel sorry for myself, as kind of a self-righteous Prometheus strung up to a rock on my mountainous ego as the giant canary picks through my gall bladder. Even so, rocks are space, and space must be an illusion, as I've none in my head for anything else. Yet still, I persist in torturing myself like an idiot. I need to get over me, and get focused on the task at hand. It's time to write, people. Git-er-dun. Quit singing "Santeria"
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