The days start later and later. Early winter wind ensures I can't sleep long enough. A month of writing page after page of self-excoriation. Exhaustion mixes with the routine of sweat and caffeine-overdoses through long nights. A giant smear of glossed-over life. I resign myself to writing eulogies to a lovely woman who I accidentally murdered. I'm just tired, and the unhappy ending is still so far beyond a horizon that never comes.

11:35 a.m. - 2017-12-04