good morning

red digits black coffee white collar and tie slot c9, sir, please clock in and die for forty more hours check's in the post shake hands and smile at the chains on your throat

but between quarter-inch lines you'll run free and you'll try to stay alive keep your hands in the air, holding on to a song for the ones who can still hear the sound of color in the lines

(mondays suck)

I miss singing.

Is that weird?

Not that it matters.

I used to be able to write music. Get stuff out into the open that way.

Actually, the reality is probably that my ability to write is right where it was at the beginning, and I didn't realize that it sucked until now.

Not all of it, granted. Some of it didn't suck.

Whatever, point is that I'm out of new ideas, and I don't know where they went.