Fatigue sets in.
It’s deep enough, sometimes, to devour my soul. The day, born anew, hours old, hastily sketches out another draft of those sometimes.
Dullness trades places with pain, resignation with despair. The stoic (that I pretend to be) is nothing more, really, than a storer – holding on, pushing down, locking up, all of the grievances, all of the sadness, most of the aches