the moribund tend to repeat themselves. or talk about the weather that repeats through them. the most fustrating rhetorical repetition is is it me? who else is it gonna be? i'm sorry for myself yes, and that too is a moribund repetition. i remember though when i was really depressed every single thought seemed to wind up there, every juncture a stale and windswept platform with no trains coming and the feeling they had all gone lingering in the stifled air.
another question i could ask is is it you? but that would be arrogant. or presumptuous, or something specious perhaps at least. i'm trying too hard now to think. i know this.
i think i need to talk to more anarchids. and i need to fill my head with flowers and lay it down on a mossy stump, i need to go in search of bees and soft fluffy clouds and puppies and  sensual healing and make fun of life. oof i get so danged serious. what the hay, why can't i let loose and play? 
there's little content sometimes in depression. i'm glad i'm not paying someone to nod and list and listen. and my readers can turn me off in a quick exhale and i'll never be the wiser. 
sorry, i feel guilty, and it's nothing to be sorry for so i feel guilty for feeling sorry and sorry for myself for feeling guilty.
but there's always tomorrow. and i don't reckon it's the last day i'll say it.