Black Coffee

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I feel like a light-bulb that has burnt its joy; busted filament. This week is going to sock it to me. This week has already socked it to me and its only Monday. What to do? I guess I will just continue through it like black coffee and no night’s sleep, all dark about the edges and midnight opaque.

 

I wonder if it feels good being right? I feel like I have just read the Russians, being wrong; a book hangover that lingers for two weeks of straight melancholy. If I would have known that this was a Dostoevsky novella we were characters in I would have said, “No, thank you. I’ve read those before.” But the melancholy is there; I stepped right into a Russian novella and dammit if it ain’t black coffee Mondays ’til I can afford some cream.

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