Quiet Sadness.

What is this quiet sadness? This seeing through a muddy, smeared glass, this pushing through a gluey, yeasty bread dough? This is depression. But where? Why?

Food doesn’t numb the pain, though it’s something to do that requires no effort. I’m not binging. But I am thinking about it.

I want to stay home. But really what I want is sharpness and clarity. I’m tired of the haze.

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