I stand slowly, under the weight of hours. I feel small cracks of overcaffeination, and groans of fitful sleep cascade through me. The machine protests with a deep moan, sounding of a distant rumble of galvanization in my lungs. The gears within grind together with the unstoppable inevitability of waking. Huge flakes of rusted resolve slough off my gears of routine. Day after day, the oxidation of age shears away under the press, stress and duress of discipline. I master myself in strides too long to be maintained. Too short to be efficient. And not soon enough to be meaningful.
Still. I hear the mechanical roar of my internal construct whoosh with open reverberation. And my grim face would show satisfaction if it weren't rigid with the concentration of vanity.
11:47 p.m. - 2014-05-26
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