Same as I ever was.

Aged and primed, the paint dries as I attempt to stay awake. Funny that it used to be the opposite. Instead I stare at the pixels and pockmarks of the white wall curved around my granite, speckled counter. If I could, the interference that continues to pock and pixelate my own life would be buried deep within that wall. It would be trying to crawl out--left in its own cyst, a horizontal climb for air.

I cannot believe things, especially at such a late time frame. Life is being eaten by minuscule particles, breaking down my interior flesh-parts through enzymes and pollution and time itself. Yet, I cannot tear myself away from the underlying feeling that something big will occur. Soon? We may have to sit here just a little longer, tired, barely awake, and waiting until morning comes again.