the facts being what they are, the jury must rule that the accused has passed the bulk of another summer sort of vaguely, on lurching pins and needles feet, perpetually just accordioned out from under a sofa’s limb lump, with long stretches of greasy unmarked time spreading out between the moments—not gone—of crystalline joy. the expectation of sunny merriment leaves me more on edge than the worst winter storm ever does. a shame, how leisure haunts and disappoints me. unbecoming, ugly, and unfair. i do try to handle this better. i have improved! when i was small i would cry in the middle of parties imagining the ride home and how i hadn’t had fun right. i do know it is one of the great calamities of the self-important, wanting so badly for varied good times and idle hours to add up into some greater meaning, when the meaning should be the pleasure of each moment itself, and no one will be taking an accounting when it’s done. i do become fearful if i’ve had too much coffee on an empty stomach or on my lunch break walks where sweat creates an entire new world under my jeans and the jeans themselves turn stiff enough to stand upright even if i were to float away somewhere, gone. i do become concerned if i wake up in the night or sometimes in the shower or on the bus or when something catches the corner of my eye while i am reading a book or more likely a tweet. in these sleepwalking moments where my guard falls away i slip sideways into the dank cave of my stupid and unseemly desire to be doing something important with my life and, in step, confront my complete failure to adopt the obvious and enlightened view that a life, the organic fact of it, the insane trick, is important already, and the various itemized facts and details of how it was spent make little difference. i am in many ways so resplendently happy; i worry all the time.
You are very good at writing so there’s that.