Yesterday,

I missed the sunrise and didn't feel sorry for it. I looked up and saw cobwebs in the ceiling's corners. The sunlight did nothing except sting my eyes. My cup of coffee went cold, barely touched. I forgot to put Bill Withers on. I stared at a blinking cursor for thirteen minutes, and then closed the page. I read a write-up on Kierkegaard and felt too lazy to bookmark. It took me an eternity to get out of bed. A memory of yellow butterflies crossed my mind, but I shooed it away. I cringed at a mental picture of my list of to-dos. Not even the prospect of seeing "The Great Gatsby" blurred the blues. The results of the recently-concluded elections depressed me. I could smell the dust. I wanted some pasta, but decided I'd rather heat the previous evening's left-overs. I knew I shouldn't talk to anyone, otherwise I'd end up barking at them. I thought about today and felt compelled to shut my eyes.