In ten hours I will clock into work....
I think of this with an ounce of hurt. Why must the week start with such anti-bliss? I work to live, to eat, to buy gas. I don't live for work. I am a dreamer. I dream of days filled with sun shining on my face and on the top of my head. The sun will eat the evidence of my pale confines. The sounds of song pull me through the week. The singer is a siren who promises weekends filled with pleasure. I crash upon the rocks every time. Tonight I write to express this desire of the things to come. Oh the audaucity of hope! I hope to shed some of this congestion and insecurity. My snot filled tissue is remnants of what was. I drink to futures. Salud!
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