And oh how I hate the morning.

Oh. Is the world back? I don't want it. Tell it to go away.

It's the same old, same old, same old story. Terminally restless. Yearning for intangible things. Every never singing and thirsty. Soon I will be on my knees, begging the weather to break.

Like the old script above the humming timepiece, a place where happy home has no meaning. I'm not really looking for happy, but I think I'm still trying to nail down home. I'm better than I was, then, when all those words were written. But this is still no place of shelter.

Who are we kidding? Shelter. As if.

Blue days behind me.

In the space of my education, which is taking up some space in terms of time I have to actually devote to it and time it takes from my ability to make money to do shit with, I am not doing anything creative.

I have not been doing anything creative for a year and a half. More.

It's gen eds. I know. It's part of the process. There's nothing to be done for it. I'm closer to the end of all that than I am the beginning, and hoping that the latter two years of undergrad will be at least marginally better.

Don't get me wrong. I'm not expecting to transfer into the university and spend the next two years frolicking through rainbowsparkle flocks of the butterflies of enlightenment where my peers and instructors alike line up to suck the wonderwang of my heretofore unmatched genius. But it would be nice to be writing, in at least one or two of my classes at any given time. And it would be nice if, occasionally, some of that writing was allowed to be something that, generally speaking, I wanted to write. Even within guidelines. That's fine. Maybe some fiction? Just a little? I'm not even asking to write science fiction. I just want to be given a little chunk of my school-allotted time to make shit up.

It's not like that's what I'd like to be doing with my education, and my life, in the long run, or anything.