Du matin au soir.

 

De l’aube à la luminosité réduite du filtre à lumière bleue.

 

Working. Hard. Not really.

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A constant medley of overthinking and procrastination yields overcomplicated ideas with only one feasible path of execution requiring that all pieces fit into place the exact way that they were intended to.

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Which they never do. That’s why you’re always late.

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Focused. Not really.

 

So many concurrent thoughts, it’s hard to pinpoint where the plan starts and ends.

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If there were a hundred little elves to help with the process, you could be a real Santa, but to afford the elves you need to get your shit together first.

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Don’t think this is offensive to the reader, the reader is you.

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You’re not offended, you’re offensive, trying to seem all high and mighty while stressing your few impressive accomplishments and foregoing the years you spent on the couch.

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Your back hurts right now, it’s not from being too active stop pretending.

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The years spent with a spine in the shape of a newborn still has its merit. The laws of the universe dictate that the entropy of a closed system must increase, so if the body is still, the mind must race.

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Those countless hours spent downloading information into your brain need to be uploaded now.

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It’s time to regurgitate something magical.

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Creative vomit, with sprinkles.

Show what you’re made of.