Reciept

i've evaluated everything already and there's nothing I can do and I'm sorry, so sorry, and there's nothing to it, little one, run, run, and your little legs

no caps, too many and's, too redundant

fucking just let me sleep and you can tear my heart out or suck my soul straight from my jugular if it makes ya' happy, because my eyes are bloodshot(remember west texas and sunsets? ) every time I close them it feels like knives, thousands, are running the length of their blades in and out of my iris's and you just sit there and watch me across the room while tears are flooding my mouth and drenching my hair like it was the middle of july and I was sweating from heat, when really,

you're just a fucking dick.

but these are the analogs of the sleepless and there's nothing to be done, end of story. we're all gazing at the ceiling and wandering what obscene thought will come floating to consciousness, because believe me, they're pretty fucking vulgar and there's no way to get them gone unless you're sleeping, but even just thinking of it makes you feel helpless and allofasudden there's this huge bursting out of your body idea of walking, running, movement, actions, doing something to wear you out, and there're tears streaming across your cheek bones and clumps of crusty mascara from the night before sticking your eyelids together. how come there's nothing to be done, I did everything correctly?

eat at six

use a desk

take some benadryll before nine

close eyes

it's like when you expect your umbrella to keep you dry in the rain, but it has holes and faults you knew nothing of. sleeplessness consists of every sort of let down I know. I expect my body to shut off. I expect it to thrive with MORE sleep, not less.

fucking fuck fucker.