It's raining. I haven't slept for more than 5 hours a night in almost a week. So I'm not sure if I'm chilled because of the weather or because I'm slowly dying of something.
There's a quiet discontentment. A roughhousing between heart and head as I type here. Maybe it's exhaustion.
Shouldn't I be writing on a beach somewhere? I'm young. I have a passport. I have a laptop. And I'm ridiculously neurotic and responsible and practical. And borderline boring. Someone, take me away. Sigh.
Maybe I just need sleep. After Lost.
I apparently have a thing for typewriters. In photographs, at least.