At 1339 I wake up, surprised I'm not dead, and more tired than I went to sleep. And I'm thinking that today I am supposed to be in London, but I'm not. And this is really quite saddening. At 0507, previously, a red fox stares through me in the street outside my apartment. Frozen with fear. And I think to myself, I've never seen so many. And as I walk past a white BMW 3 series, it disappears. And I think why here? Why not there? And somewhere between 2043 and 0331 I spend my night on the wrong side of a cocktail bar, not because I need to work, but because I want too. But really, it's pretty shit.
On Wednesday I am sick four times, and apparently the mystic that shrouds my character is dismantled by drunken conversation. Which I cannot recall. Nor piece together via text message, as none are sent or received. Leaving the bar to momentarily vomit, and then return to drink my way through.
And at 1502 I receive a phone call, regarding a voice mail I never received, and I am left wondering where my life has gone. Where my alfresco luncheons have gone. Why my social life peaked at sixteen. And I'm pretty burnt out.