All of life is building towards a terrible crescendo that I can’t halt or handle. The deep sublime terror: a feeling that I am not living my life, but rather it is being lived and wasted for me. The consequences of my life lived seems to be a sleepwalkers embellishments, which flake apart once even the most meager light is cast upon them. Terribleness about myself and by extension the world cycle; or perhaps that is backwards. Need to escape is billowing my sails and consuming my thoughts just for the breeze to leave and strand me in the middle of a calm ocean. No immediate danger, but the creeping knowledge that sips of salt water will be the final undoing. I don’t want to work. I’m not ready to die. From pragmatic experience, I’m not ready to live either.