My legs are cold.
My blood thickens.

My twelve-page Christmas letter falls over and puts a nice crack in the garage floor.
My instinct tells me not to turn around, my desire lunges, my intelligence condemns.

My dreams abandon me daily.
My inertia slams into my entropy, but my no-fault policy seems to have no effect.

My Rolodex recounts Kepler without citations.
My Sunday surrenders, balmy.

My laundry hangs, damply.
My turtleneck from Penney’s hangs, pilly.

My pages run out.
My bed calls, guiltily.

Categories: The Grind
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