Fourteen hours tethered to the little corner desk, I forget to check the time and float into the weighted blanket of a good deadline and creative works. The bank account says maybe that's fine, and the days fall out from under you. He tries to explain how the hollowness fills his entire inside and he's not sure quite how to smile if nothing reminds him to. Your soft heart hasn't fully hardened, you realize, and perhaps that is all for the better.
I don't yet know what the point of all of this is. I'm still choosing to believe there is one.
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