Sun Mar 22 23:10:02 GMT 2009
I'm tired, my enthusiasm dulled by the disarray and stress in our lives, muffling my mind like a grubby bandage. I can feel my eyes are glassy. I couldn't wake up this morning, swayed like a drunk in the dark bedroom as I groped into chilly cotton. Leaving the house I feel like I'm escaping to work, thoughts running to my tasks for the day. Standing on the train, shimmering over the lines, I stare at my thin hands. Pale, almost translucent, they're pocked with small cuts and rough skin, nails grown unruly like children gone wild for want of authority. Somehow they're depressing to look at, and I fold them back into my jacket pockets, two bony white birds going home to roost.