by gurdeepmattu

It’s not like there isn’t plenty to do; there is plenty to do.  Making lists is as much as pleasure as a chore.  But it is the gaps in between, and it always has been.  Clean and clinical, synaptic, the urge and the pulse — beyond all that you can taste, and touch, and put your hands on — there it exists, distant and unmoving, fixed in a tractor beam of light, turning around slowly, an inscrutable marble egg of disdain and boredom that is opening its gasping mouth in its very anticipation.