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Ping, ping, ping.

Day after day after day.

Enmeshed in my focus is your hand around mine that one night, and then around hers, and then your confession that you were decieving me. Riding around at night with one eye open and the other helplessly myopic. The nights I sat by the kitchen table, squeezing my brain like a near-empty tube of toothpaste. The alarm clock I set every night. The drawings and poems I dream about that never come out. The complaints and health problems of people around me. The films and cameras collecting dust in my room, occasionally used but not focused towards any artistic goal. The nausea and dehydration and constipation upon every waking moment. The square hats and tassels of a week ago. The eyebrows that need to regrow in the next three months. The slight chance of someone else in my uterus.

So many things we are told we should do. So many things we think we need to survive. So many things we just do to satisfy our hungers.

Ping, Ping, Ping.

CLick, click CLICK.

Is any of this real? Did I ask for any of this? A tangled vat of tasteless spaghetti. I know life is short. I just don't know what to do with it.