Places like this make me sick.
A/C on, computer on, wits off.
Cigs lit, zeal extinguished.
I need sunshine.
Long talks, long walks, long islands.
I've grown fat.
My back is fat and my face is fat and my paranoia is fed by the weighing scale.
Every day.
Turn off the lights, light up the candle, and keep the music playing.
And let me lashes flutter until they settle down with the slumber that I hope visits me in less than five minutes.