always the question, "what's my motivation?" i get home, i'm unmotivated. sleep calls out to me like a siren song. it feels so good, you know it does. it's so easy, just do it. give in.
having conversations, thoughts, writing, and coming to the precipice of my train of thought and realizing there aren't as many cars on the train as i had hoped. the words just trail off into a kind of idiotic hanging. and i'm left standing there holding the bag, so to speak.
coffee occasionally wakes me up as if i've taken ldopa and come out of a coma drift. i wish i could shake off, vomit up, the sleepiness.