i need to do something about the way that i make money, i can't do this anymore, i am so tired and sad and everyday seems twice as long as the day before... and always this nagging that i'm not cut out for this, and things begin to float back to me, spiders weaving webs i'll never imitate, bukowski holding my hand and this emptiness can only swallow the sound of me falling in the echos bound by events streaming away from me horizons appearing in the mind.