where I say hours I mean years, mean life

"so gloriously self indulgently insensitively full of shit" i wrote.
"and by you i mean fuck"
"insisted that there is something quite wrong with them, really."
"we don't want more time. this is important."
"scary prospect." i wrote.
"look people in the eye? more ambition? less ambition?"
"i got a laugh out of that, at least."
"there is limited inspiration to be had, here."
"that sinking feeling" i wrote.
"neck pain"
"also, bodies."
"which is really hard to take for whatever reason"
"a dozen open tabs" i wrote.
"drained all the pasta sauce off the world with my cosmic recklessness"
"something awkward and disappointing and, just, sad"
"it reads a little fake, i think."
"blind panic" i wrote.
"this whole thing about missing what may or may not be my only chance at meaningful human connection"
"there. i am turning into the worst kind of person. an american."

"12/03 weekend. anhedonia. force myself to eat. intrusive thoughts."


this is a list i made a few years ago that i never did anything with:
slope
fold
song
prop
dawn
cross
dough
logo
bounce
wool
comb
cup
curl
black
ahead
sneer
lean


this is a poem by emily dickinson:

the heart asks pleasure first,
and then, excuse from pain;
and then, those little anodynes
that deaden suffering;

and then, to go to sleep;
and then, if it should be
the will of its Inquisitor,
the liberty to die.