I keep laying on my bed, on this warm weather, with some songs that sound cold, and with completely different smells around me, I find myself torn. I feel old, and new, and the same, all at the same time.

I don't feel sad. I just feel out of sorts. Like I'd spent the last days sleeping with out shifting or twitching at all. And had dreamt of nothing but a cold, sweaty black that somehow taunts me once I'd opened my eyes.

And when I open my eyes, I'm struck by the bright green that I thought I'd gotten used to, but this time, I feel like a stranger in my own quarters. So I try to focus on the lyrics of what ever song is playing at the moment, and this afternoon, well this afternoon, All of our friends were here but they all have gone home. I can't grasp this.

To top it all and excluding the migraines that won't let me be, I tried vanquishing a swirl of rainbow sugar with my front teeth while switching from book to book to book, because I really just want to finish them. I confused the nearly-illiterate, suicidal, anti-capitalist bum with a serial killer that died a fantastic death. Maybe that's just my problem, ever since I read the book The Seven Days of Peter Crumb, I'd been obsessed with murders or deathly concepts and sick ways of being, characters that wrap at the sides of my brain and stay beneath my skin until I can fall asleep.

I'm giggling to myself now. I love weekends.

Time's tide will smother you.