I feel as if caged and worn, sweated of my interests and barren of my cause. Hobbies seem to me suddenly hollow and trifle, so I pace the ground thats most familiar to me as if sleep walking had always been my habit. The rain it comes as often does the sun, and night fells predictably earlyhaving placed me in some awkward twilight. Has it been days since I last slept, lying there in my crowded boredom? My imagination seems to beckon me more often than ever until my known dimensions become diluted. Is this what its like to create a world of your own, mapping it just the way you wanted it only to leave the one youre from entirely weightless? If only I could blame it on something I could stop, and not have to wander or vent these abstract corridors.