Goose feathers frequent the fastidiousness of my disease. Ideology circles the drain of my thoughts, pragmatism clogs my desires. A night can seem to be an eternity when your eyes arrogantly refuse to close. When the sun is up and there are pages to be consumed, the moon arises again within seconds. When will time learn to behave, to follow the ticking of my watch with seriousness. Time laughs at me until I’m but a broken clog, caught in the mechanical dismal display of my life.