I'm not done yet.

Recent dreams had me crippled with sentimentality, until I realized I wasn't actually asleep, but lulled into manufactured fantasy hewn from the basaltic cues of random, rapid images of genuine sopor. My chest hurt when the alarm blared, like with any regular dream, but the details were all too clear and easy to recollect, not dissipating into amnesia with the slightest breeze. I filled that sore chest with caffeine and replayed every scene along the drive to work. Definitely not dreaming.

Can a heart be full and broken at the same time? I imagine a tin pot holed with buckshot underneath a flowing spigot. I guess so, so long as the faucet's open throttle. How lucky we are to live in such a time of riches. Made some changes recently to my routine, which includes reading from actual paperback books before bedtime and not buying alcohol (but not turning it down).

Took a god's honest vacation, and spent more time with my daughter in one day on a snowboard than in the previous month combined. Don't know if I totally understand her. Hope I haven't broken anything.

Have absolutely zero passion for anything beyond work at the moment. All the endorphins that used to flow from random comments and "LIKES" completely ineffective, when compared with the high that comes with happy boss' day cards.


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