I'm writing only because I have gotten in the habit of doing it every day and foregoing that tradition wouldn't be wise.
I'm tired. It's been a busy, but unproductive, day.
I intended to just steal something from my old notebooks and post it here, but I haven't been finding anything I like. That seems to happen a lot, Finding that I don't really feel like the person I used to be, and don't really like the things I produced in the past. The poetry I wrote feels trite. That's an issue with getting older, one realises the folly of youth.
I also find myself wondering how much the folly of youth was the fault of youth and how much the fault of illness. When did the craziness start?
My drugs are beginning to take effect. I wish I could have written more.