It's been unbearably stuffy recently.

I've spent all this time trying to catch up with newly released and spilling all my effort entertaining myself - in the end they all become tasteless.

I don't want to do work, but now I don't feel joy or sastifaction from consuming this either.

Ah, I want to sleep.

See, that's one point of contention. In fiction something will happen that breaks the character from their fantasies and bring them into an actual fantasy. A call to action. In real life, however, you can't wait.

You have to make your own opportunity, your own call to action. Your own spice to life.

Or you'll end up dying slowly, like me, this apathy poisoning my veins and this self-cruelty clogging my arteries and with a vicious urge to self-harm.

What a joke.

I'm already self-harming myself by not paying attention to the future. There's always time. I say, but foundation is important, is it not?

Not that I've ever done so. My wrists are barren, like my mind today.

Time passes by so quickly. I both want and do not want it to pass quicker.

Save me. Save me. That's what I want to cry out, but that's not how things work.

I'll have to save myself. Pull myself out of this muck, hand over hand. Past self and future self working together.

It's so... much effort.

Ah, I'm so glad I can sleep.