Into the Sea · nothing makes sense
It’s been growing for quite some time; I no longer know how to deal with it. I never really knew. Carver once wrote «The mind is sick tonight,» and he prayed for Chekhov to ease it. I once turned to music to ease my mind but it no longer strikes me.
Dust, hairs, ash is congregating on my floor. Sheets of paper are strewn across it and there are two dirty plates on the floor. There’s more where that came from in the kitchen sink.