floor plans and sticky hands

He-he-he-he-lo my soul is dying. Everything all at once and then nothing and then everything all at once. I’m tired and I did a trial for a new client but I can’t help thinking that I fucked it up. I can’t help thinking that I fuuuucked iiiiiiit uuuuuuup. -shrugs for a thousand years- we’ll see I guess. It’s too late hot plate already done. It’s cold, my hands are cold and they smell like fucking pine trees and skunks and I can’t wash it off. I need to write a ton more things but my brain is so sad and my eyes hurt and my soul hurts also. Busting through copyscape on technicalities, neglecting other assignments and trying to keep my head all shut up tight. More. I need to do more and to finish it all and to do more. It’s time and vines and porcupines. It’s flying all low to the ground on a new October night. Heart caught up beating throat raw and bleeding each second stretched to its limit and torn from me


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