i keep thinking how people are motivated to do things like write all nights or walk out of their rooms and take buses. i am bored and tired, and i hide in grayness that comes and passes and the smoky ghosts surround me and dance like fire shadows. each day i tell myself i must get up and write but sleeping always seems like blissful and too easy, and all my body hurts again. i dream and then i wake up and its dusk all days are dusk now from 3 a.m. to 3 a.m. just wanting things seems too tiring for my cold limbs. what does it mean. what does it mean. i am just that. ash and bone and harsh laugh. i am just magazine cutout face and little print, i see all the small letters on my arms. i blink and continue staring at ceiling. it will be sunrise soon enough. before i blink thousand times.