03.18.11 - 3:09 pm

he adjusts his lengthy crossed legs. shifting deeper into the cushions. interlocks his fingers, inverts them and applies enough pressure to ensure they all crack simultaneously. takes a sip from his amber bottled beer. it is cold. it is delicious. he knows he has things he should have done today. places he should have gone. people he was supposed to call. but he wont. not soon anyways. his priorities are in such disarray, he can barely muster the focus to grab one and hold on to it until it lays there, exhausted in his hands, unable to fight the procrastination any longer.

he has almost two months of blockage to free before he can proceed. a self imposed barrier that insists he catch up before he can move forward. he dislikes this pressure immensely, but understands why he does it.

his lips turn cold. his tongue fizzles briefly.

lets begin.