Sink

How easy it is to wade in the mire, to let yourself spiral down the long, dark slides of your innards, how empty the inside of a balloon when you roll it over shards of glass in the gravel. He writes to say seven weeks vacation start now and you cannot begin to explain how you landed where you did, this jagged country of empty promises, this shining beacon of imminent fireworks. I'm running out of money, ma, I'm running out of steam, and I keep forgetting why I should replenish the wells from which I drink. Make my way back across the bridge and wonder what the point is. I said once I'd give up everything if only I could write and it seems I upheld my end of the bargain, but what did I get in return?

Genies are unmoved by your delayed pleading.

Be specific with your wishes.