comes the leaden day, on which nothing is quite right, though it may also not be demonstrably wrong. It is instead simply uncanny somehow and possessed of a singular and thick kind of melancholy. I feel like an antique that has been sequestered away in a dark, forgotten study for decades without disturbance. I feel like the index of a book unread since being placed on the shelf during young adulthood—that is to say, hidden, untouched and untouchable, and lulled into complacency by a kind of dull, dim sheen hovering everywhere about the day.
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My head is as heavy as October, I’m not really managing to read w/o sleeping.