And the cold is seeping in; the music warms me but not enough, and I shiver.
Frustration owns me; I cannot sleep, I cannot work, and a single drink makes me inconsolable. This cold glass apartment makes me weaker, for I can hear the happiness of others without. The happiness within comes from the television set, squawking happy endings at me approximately every twenty-nine minutes.
I dare not look in the mirror, for my imperfections are magnified, and the more you pick at them, the deeper they will scar.
Christmas is coming and the jingling bells only serve to remind me that I am so far behind where I want to be; where I need to be.
Home...I cannot wait to be where my heart is; particularly when my work is behind me for a few short, sweet weeks.
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despite the daily hurdles and masses of criticism, the writing continues - and there is glamour in the offing
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