There is a lump in my chest that makes it hard to breathe, to swallow.
Time speeds by, but my work stands still. I steal time with the words of others because I cannot steal enough for my own. Rather than inspired, I am jealous & angry. Rather than inspired, I am humbled. Rather than inspired, I am struck dumb.
Raging – just as counterproductive.
What would I give for a good week? For more hours in a day?
(worse yet is the question: should I even bother?)