Well,
It's here.
Again.

That hovering, haunting presence.
Dark and dreary.
Sorrowful and full of sticky persistence.

I'm careening into chaotic flustering pandemonium.
And the tragedy is that I seem so well put together on the outside.
That's just the cleverness of me.

I'm miserable a little bit.
There seems to be no end in sight.
The gray clouds blind my view of the horizon.

And what I wish I was doing,
the reading, the writing, the making,
is a hopeless set of now daunting incompletes.

I am so angry on the inside.
I want to break everything and then go to sleep.
And have it all be put back together when I wake up.

But it's when my eyes are closed that everything falls apart.
And the juices in my stomach begin to churn.
I am sick with the fevered tedium of a crippled explorer.