Read a book? Too much effort. Write? Too much effort. Sweating, net-surfing, eating ice cream? Barely manageable. Barely possible.
I want to be bare. Of clothes, of responsibilities, of necessity. Of desire, of dreams. I want to rest. I want to come out of the oven. I am cooked through.
I slurp and squelch like a slug towards the horizontal -- beds, couches, my feet propped up on my desk and my shoulders slouched. I am water, I find my own level. I slide into the heat, into the end of day.
I write these words, scattered and few, and the weight of who I am presses a little less close.