ail, it got cold again, middlemarch, time before life comes struggling back. the wind's mournful, full of ghosts. everybody's gone but me. maybe the wind woke me, after a winded sleep, anyway i had to pee. everybody asleep elsewhere but me and the wind at three forty. nah, i bet there are other souls awake, though. i'll ask someone tomorrow. somebody else is feeling precisely this way they can't describe. 
i was thinking earlier today, well now it's tomorrow it was yesterday, how time goes, it's freaky, that you only have so much, so little in fact, it happens so suddenly while you're distracted trying things, struggling hour to hour day by day, bored and stoned and ecstatic by turns, your body all the while getting used up, sloughing off, old skin, floaters in your eyes, this me, looking around, sweeping space, a timid kid after all, all of a sudden so slowly old.