My mind is frozen. My eyes afixed on whatever is in front of them.What is this intense melancholy? It is the knowledge that it cannot work, no matter how good it feels. I want more, though, just a little more here, another touch there. I want all of it, and i take what i can when i can, because i know it won't last long. Yet the more i take, the deeper i am sucked in, melted into a warmth and comfort i find no where else. I make my pain last longer. Idiote.
And so i sit in this chair and let my mind ooze out of my ears and my eyes and my nose and my mouth and onto the desk. Brain matter is such a gradual syrup. I feel sorry for those around me, how off-put they must feel. I would apologize but the slime has sealed my lips, turning my attempts at courtesy into helpless, broken moans.
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