I’m drained – there’s almost no more fluid left in my brain, or lobes or ears. I feel like it’s been spent on things and things and things, and by the time I collapse in/between my comforters to try and collect and count what I’ve spent them on, they slip by (I can’t find the words overandover again). As of now, I’m trying to figure out if it’s good or bad – so I speak in rhythm or rhyme that even I don’ understand.

I already have plans: to lay on the couch and bludge. To watch tv to my heart’s content (and not think of work). Maybe I shall make some unprecedented trips to the coffee places at night and eat an ice cream in subzero temperatures. Because I can. I’ll be sleeping in an airport (even though all I really want now is a vvgood massage). I’ll sleep wherever I can / wherever I want to before I-

So I’ve been home at eleven everyday, or later. Better now, I suppose, to have creases everywhere, than later, and so I thrust a pen and paper in your hand: will you plan my life, like put the details down in a planner or in the little gadget calander things of your mobile so you know what I’m supposed to do (because I don’t)- and it’ll happen as you will.