I don’t know where I’m going or what I’m doing. I’m stuck in a rut. Texas isn’t helping. I can’t do anything. I can’t help myself here. I am not progressing.

Lately, my fingers have been slipping across the pages in my drawing books. A pencil in hand, but nothing flows from it. Scribbles and scratches etched upon the paper. Everything is nothing in hand. Nothing is everything on paper.

I want the parasite to bite onto me. I want it in my body. In my skin. In my veins. In my heart. In my brain.

It will not do such a thing. It is fleeting like a cool summer breeze. Changing like the weather. Always out of reach, like the last train home. The one you’re racing to catch, but are just a second too slow. A person too late.