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Peace Virally Prodigal cad 'e cuss'd The zen of the father... Attrition.
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In Crypted
I am just still exhausted. There's nothing I can do that seems to shake it. Things are just slipping down and seething and I ache. I still ache. Nothing to do but keep pushing and struggling, dragging myself through the viscous doldrums. I think that mostly, it's physical exhaustion. I haven't been getting much sleep. I find it hard to lay down, to stop moving, because when I fall asleep I lose time. The sense of displacement each morning is palpable and terrifying. And I'm never sure how much time is left on the clock. I'm never sure I'll wake up. I'm intimately aware of my own mortality. I've had a few close calls already and I'm not eager for a repeat. And when I stop, the whole futility of it pounds down. There is the terrible knowledge, the vast gasping force that lays in the shadows. Clawing and reaching with bloody tendrils of mind-burning knowledge. The hideous organic brunt of everything that I see, these sick patterns and the brutal insensible narrative. The unknowable purpose that insistently invades, sweeping up events like leaves in the wind.
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D-rev.
