12 a.m. again. Clock’s giving me that dirty look like it knows how desperate I am. Every night, it’s the same shit. me vs. this hour, like I owe it something. I don’t. It’s just there, heavy, waiting for me to crack. And I do, don’t I?
My head’s a pit. dark, sticky, full of crap I can’t shake. Oh, perfect time for deep thoughts, right? Like I’m some broody poet. More like an intern who’s being human for the first time and can’t turn off the noise. My body’s not thrilled either.
Winning combination.
Could flip the plot. Tell midnight to shove it, break the cycle, be a normal human for once. Sounds cute. Bet I’d sleep like a baby and wake up all shiny. Yeah, sure. probably too screwed for that now. Or maybe I just love being gloomy. It’s my aesthetic, right?
Here we go again. Bring it, asshole.