I guess I wrote this the other night while I was very sleepy.
I don’t remember doing it at all, but it’s in my notebook right besides me.

“My fan spins, casting a spiral shadow across my ceiling. Its frail white light causes my walls to look barren. Its wings spin quietly, and even beneath the blast of my cooling system, I find no refuge from the hot and sticky air all around me. It is quarter to one.

(then incomprehensible scribbles)

I am moving towards the more positive end of the spectrum. Half the time I can’t stand my inability to change. The other half greatly appreciates it, causing rifts of confusion. “Identity Crisis” would be a nice way of putting it. Dare I ”

What?