This is what happens when one is so frickin’ emotionally distraught and listening to Death Music:

Not at all fond of you,

terminal illness, freight

train heading now, and on,

at varying speeds – you

miss often your target, stop,

reconsider the origin, purpose,

point at which all is and

becoming more than

futility. O soul, world,

creature bearing

your triteness well! I lunge

for you: either gobble

me or be stilled.

I have a prayer, and it consists: I want more. Not only that – I want to be more. I want to do more. Why is it I never have the gall? Every day, I wake up, I don’t go to school, I sit on the Internet for an hour (sometimes twice a day), write little, read little, and expect to get somewhere. Snap out of it, Lynsey. You’re better than this.

What happened?