It is pitch dark


Yesterday I was very sad and heartbroken. I tried to cry, but I couldn’t. Or maybe I could but refuse to remember.
Today I was sad, too. But then my sadness turned into anxiety and made me aware of every inch of my brittle stomach lining.
In this turmoil I had a very hard time getting the favors done for the people whom I promised them. Eventually I did, but hardly any satisfaction sprung from it.
I got a call from London. A man told me to come work for him, he’d pay me 300 pound sterling a day. I am the man you are not looking for, I tried to imply by saying something else. I sent him a photograph that has my face on it, in the hopes that it will make him realize his error.
Nowadays it gets pitch dark in the afternoon. As soon as the sun has set I feel like lying down and pulling my knees against my chest with my arms while thinking of a particular person and bemoaning the rift between the two of us. I might be bemoaning with someone else in unison, a random spurned entity in a random place that is — perchance — drenched in darkness as well. The thought lends a certain sweetness to the pain.
Tomorrow I will get up and run two miles while it’s December outside. Anyway, why do they call it restless, when the last thing you need is rest?