When the words don’t flow the way you want them to, all you’re good for is hibernation. It’s all I’m good for, anyhow. There’s all the intent in the world but no finger on the trigger. When there’s no finger on the trigger, all you do is linger like a fart, aimlessly drifting about the room with no clue as to what to do next. The ideas are right where you want them. Like a lover on a bed, with their arms above their head, begging you to fuck their brains out. It’s not that you don’t want to, but try as you might, what once was as natural as breathing becomes as complex as reading Greek. And I, for one, am shit at other languages, reading or speaking. Got an F when I took French. All I knew was how to say dog and how to express my tiredness, and that’s about it. Days like these are days like those. Nothing seems to fit the way it used to fit. The light in the sky fades like a train down old tracks that exist only in memory. I exist in a world ruled not by action but by symbolism. Every move is overthought—every desire, crippled by the fear of what might come next but never does.