i feel antsy. my bones are cold underneath my skin. the clock is ticking, quiet reminders of my mortality. i often sit and silently despise the great philosophers for thinking my thoughts. how inconsiderate they must have been for documenting the assessments that i surely thought first. i hate being conventional.

what a waste of money i have been. i despise the concept of waste yet here i am, essentially killing time, waiting ever so impatiently to decide if it's worth the effort.

these thoughts crowd my mind until the world around me is so saturated that i need to close my eyes. diary of an insomniac.