Morose Meditations at the Close of Epiphanytide

I picked a fine moment to fall into a state of ineptitude. A fine moment, indeed. As time stretches itself into pretzeled contortions, my responsibilities pile upon each other in an unheeded heap; glued together by guilt- the strongest known adhesive. Perhaps I am not fully to blame for my current wretchedness. It is, after all, february (this horrid month is hardly worthy of the dignified capitalization afforded truly proper names). I am but a mere vessel of expression for my environment, from within my environment, with very little say in the matter. I doubt I will ever become its equal. And so the misery which surrounds my skin, and which stirs about my innards, provides a putrid pulse which stinks, like a dead skunk in the middle of the road, up to the high heavens; causing the stars to dance in languish, for who willingly twirls to the sound of stark stench? Alas, I am at the mercy of melancholy; and though I beg, grovel, kiss the monarch’s feet in excess, I receive no relief in taxation. May I dissolve at the same speed as my hopes and dreams so as to miss the moment of their absence. May I somewhat gracefully end without purpose. Amen.






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