Troglodyte

Unwaking days and wakeful nights. This work is draining. One more week, four weeks ago. Regressed into my hermit existence, cathode-ray closet. Work, computer, sleep, computer, work. Time is ever so fleeting. One game after another, they don't hold my attention. Just something new. An experience to stimulate. The silken lily I had given away, yet is still in my room, satiates the air with its creamy fragrance. And that creature, which has evolved away from using legs, slowly digests another, legged one. Staying indoors all day makes the brief times I'm outside magnificent with their alienness. So new! The moon is still there; it didn't disappear while I was sleeping. The list of tasks to be done is growing longer, with baby steps being made toward each item, but never enough to cross it off. Pro(forward)+crastinus(of tomorrow). Whatever happened to "summer--the time of doing things"? Why all this fear?