Sitting on the porch, watching the silver coin sun crawl across the cloudy sky, falling asleep for a few minutes of weird, disturbing dreams time after time. Feeling tense, alienated, thoroughly frustrated, the trees hiss like the wind was driving in some epiphany that’ll probably blow past me. This scenery I have seen daily for months suddenly appears alien. The sun brightens for a moment and birds explode into a weird manic chorus of chirping, I keep replaying a song from YouTube, an earworm for the day. I should delete my Facebook account, that thing drains my thoughts, and concentrate on refilling myself with books and movies. Not quite there but closer than ever. I should be more social, go out more, hit the movies, go to the library, go to gigs, have more sex, and always, always write more, create more. “It’s never enough”, like Frank Cotton said. There are lyrics hammering the inside of my skull but there’s no use trying to write them down, since I don’t have the band they’re meant for. A huge damn flock of swallows, 30 or 40 of them is harassing a crow, driving it across the sky. I’d like to flip a table, but I guess I’ll just go inside, pop the nightly cocktail of pills that amongst other things kick the pain med withdrawal back a step, turn on the glowy rectangle, anchor myself on someone else’s stories, and hate myself a bit for it.