To work for nothing, and end a day somewhere, but always the same place: unconscious, and bound to forget everything and everyone that you will know for the lifetime that is your dream. There was little else to think about: scenarios, different ways that the past might have turned out, adding in too many details to count, and then trying to figure out where your next story is gonna go, even if it's against the rules of the game. I scribbled it all down in my copy of Welcome to the Monkey House, after re-reading the first half, once I had finished the last.

It was one of those days where the clouds loom in and around the city, and the fog is thick enough to lose track of all the distant buildings clustered outside of your window, off and away, but not too far away to feel as though it's not connected to you. The world was gray, and everyone in it, in limbo.

We try to stray away from our own missteps in life, and try not to think about those which shake us feverishly and unrelentlously, but they're either masked with some stupid and semi-cheerful thought, or just sitting there, unused, but not forgotten. That is, when we aren't dwelling on them strictly, knowing what the thought would do to us, but feasting as though it actually seems appetizing. The last five hours of my life has been the latter, so from experience, I can tell you that it's not appetizing.

In fact, it's nauseous. But when your mind has to be dwelling on something, it's better to eat what you fear the most than to starve and lose what you have left of yourself.

Maybe later, and this is hope, human, human hope, but maybe later the thought will be dismissed, and my mind free to wander in the world again; able to rebuild sanity inside of the infinite of limbo: the infinite of today.