my leg writhes, struggles, aches in pain. for i cannot tell who i am or what i have become. a pulled muscle hinders me from moving at a rapid pace. and now these words squirm out of me, as i am seated at the work this hour. i may choose to do nothing, or perhaps i could put away clothes and accessories. i am unsure of the events that will follow, but my leg screams and gnaws at me with each ferverish step; not a subtle meow as from a kitten, but a roar, a gasping cry from a dying whale. my aching muscle is a sign of my soul that longs to free itself from repetition of body, and yearns to open its gills in a clear ocean; circling the depths, but being free to surround itself, to immerse itself in liberated waters. as i struggle to clarify this meaning, grease appears on my hands, for i have taken an order for a water softener, and situated it into the work bin. i will wash my hands, but only when my mind has finished jissing this lost thought onto paper. i conversed with a dame today, a girl that i once knew, that i once fucked multiple times. but her soul was dead; only money she says can free her from depression, can buy her complete happiness; which left me scarred, and i suppose somewhat melancholy for the remainder of my day. that i had realized what a fool she was, and what kind of artificial cage she had found herself in. her soul, trapped in an artificial zoo, while mine being plagued by an existential crisis, as if i have just reached middle age and do not know whether to live or lose oxygen. my humour is dark i suppose, but i try to write honestly, for verbal languages cannot express what tears my mind or builds my thought process into gigantic towers only waiting to be crushed by the slightest blow. my hands will reek of grease vermin, i must wash them, and i suppose my tumorous leg will heal, and i suppose my thoughts. the day, full of sun, full of air, yet for me, a lurid piece of shit. i cannot express more......