I rise with stuff in my eyes,
the residual goo from having
a good look at the gestalt,
and wake myself with water.
I turn soft on the sofa,
bouncing my leg to the optimism.
It creeps like condensation
at the window, looking in.
Starvation of energy.
I loathe the refueling
of an insatiable battery.
Sheepishly, I guzzle down.
What am I capable of,
if sleep and food and touch
are all arid afterthoughts?
The rest of it all.
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