My third mood of the night. That's all this is.

[diviner]

I feel wrung out, like a used mop, drained of what makes it useful. Or like a peacock in black and white, just completely drained of whatever made it special in the first place. I want to go home, but I'm here, and leaving isn't the answer either. If home's where the heart is, then I need to find something, and I don't know what it is, or if I'll know it when I see it, but I hope I do. I want to find it, badly, this undefined thing, and I know I need it to finish the race, but I don't know where to look, and it's pointless to run without it. I need direction. I've been thinking about my Western with Derek, and maybe a US Marshal, and something about twin gunmen. Literally, twins. I don't know if I have something or if the curtains have descended too far to tell. Who knows? Bah, humbug. This isn't worth it. I think the difference is will. Living requires a fantastic amount of will, even breathing requires will. I think I've lost the will to live. I've reached the point where, far from desiring death, which I would certainly love to avoid, I just don't want to live. I'm not opposed to it, I just don't actively want it. I don't care. I need to find it again, and maybe the will to run is along with it. Good evening, friends, ladies and gentlemen, I bid thee adieu. It is with greath love and fealty that I discharge you from your reading duties of the day, and I hope the sun finds you better terms than me.
Come run with me.
Paul