Moments like these, I think about not ever needing help. Just need a sad song and a bed that has its covers askew. Just need some sleep or a good US History concept. But then again, when have I ever stopped wanting to listen to sad songs? Or stopped wanting that eternal sleepiness and warmth. When have I ever sought interest in history, fuck I hate all those cabinets. Keeping my secrets all nestled within the fine grain of poisonous once-was’ and never-growns. When have I ever not thought about just wanting someone to rub my back? When have I ever not wanted a complimentary buffet of your vertebrae or knobby corners? Sometimes I come to notice that my kryptonite tastes so sweet at 2:16 am and comes so easily in Watson’s voice. Sometimes I realise it comes too easily in pills that are supposed to keep this ugly past off, but leave too harsh in those late minutes of all the hours of the day. There’s only one thing I can say I know for certain as of right now: I have stopped wearing watches because I can’t even measured days in time anymore. Oh how contradictory of me. So I guess I measure them in days where I can’t write anything, or the feelings of not wanting to get out of bed; too scared of those presidential controversies and the acacia chokehold I have on my own self. My toes are always cold and lakes don’t seem to calm me as much as they used to.