What a damn day.

sick, tired, angry, and frustrated, though I suppose I have reasons. Mostly, upset at myself for not doing a damn thing /useful/ all day. Well, one useful writing thing, which may or may not have been part of why I'm feeling a bit ill.

The mind of a lunatic-- or even an angry-- Q is not a fun place to be.

Especially cause there's too much of it that is a lot like the parts of my mind I don't think about too hard, or at least, that don't often Show Themselves in the light of day. But Poor Henry, for whom all of this is foreign.

Ah well.

I have to work tomorrow, which is at least something useful, if damn irritating. Also to make up, I am finishing making a new wallet, as the old one is pretty effectively dead. At some point, i've got to make more, to sell.

I just want real-life to painfully die. I want tidal waves and smoke breathing and to watch it all go down in flames. I want to eat buildings and storm through the streets and scream and snarl and be seduced by a pretty girl and ravish her and be ravished back until we can niether of us think or speak.

Although I obviously can't think or I bet I'd not be typing this. Ah well. I go to sink my teeth and claws into my pillow and maybe I'll dream of serpents, in my present thick and stupid way.

I had brilliance once, but that was just another dream.

<<agé chose>>

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