there is nothing left to do for now, but to snap out of it. this looming gloom of every day which sends me tumbling through my very own slow decay. i am here, this is now. tomorrow will come, eventually but 'til then, this listlessness and sad foray will not do. i ponder and i wonder about this extrication of self and sorrow from the famed writing of tomorrow. unwritten, undigested.
yet i wallow.
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