When writing is done for more than the average amount of output produced in a span of three days, one feels extremely saturated that one feels the urge to self oneself on fire.
There is also the dilemma of whether or not one must carry on writing, and thus, do plenty of thinking. Thinking that would most definitely drive you nuts in the most exhilarating way possible that you literally, just grab at your chest area and rip your shirt into shreds while producing sounds most positively inhuman. Of course, that is overly dramatic, quite unnecessarily bordering on bad taste. But. Fuck you.
There is something about consuming inordinate amounts of caffeine and smoking far too many cigarettes after a nap that accidentally went on far longer than you'd have allowed yourself had you a choice on the matter that seems to give you a peculiar boost of mental energy to the point of successfully speaking like you're barking mad and being unsure if it is something to be proud of. But before you can come up with an answer, you realize you're too lazy to think of anything.
"Hurry home and get drunk with me," the voice pleaded.
"That is all you seem to need. Someone to get drunk with you."
"In more ways than one."
"I have no need for such trivialities."
"You were made for trivialities."
"You are sweet in your cruelty."
"Only because you are mine."
"I am not to be owned by anyone."
"That's what they all say at first."
"It was you who wanted me."
"Then why have you stayed?"
"Some things you cannot help. I am drawn to you."
"Strike two."
"I'm sorry."
"That's your fucking last."
"The games you play can be wildly exhausting."
"You know what else is wild and exhausting?"
"Ah, if only."
Godlings roam the Earth. They show themselves to us, but only glimpses. Perhaps more if you can tame them; but only for a little while. Sigh.
8/8/12