Lie in place.
Scroll through the online catalogue of a million first dates.
Brush my teeth.
Dress for work.
Comb my hair.
Knot it back up.
Undress for bed.
Repeat.

I’ll lose my way of writing.
From the booze and the weed and the smoke and the still nights and the quiet mornings.
Nostalgic for a life I never had.
And yearning for one never to be.
How long can one survive like this?

I’ve felt this pain time and time again.
It’s been examined and written and spoken and...