Too Many Self-Portraits

Everyone, hit the floor
It's penetrated the door
Slowly creeping past your barricades
Setting off the warning raids

I wake up at one thirty, full dressed, crunched in ball on the pillow, and I hate it. The comforter is coated with papers and textbooks. There's a stack of novels at the bottom left corner. There's the pen-and-ink library, the net curtain knotted the way Alison left it, and bags and pens and bras on either side of the matress on the floor.

I've got to sleep, and I've got to stop doing homework in bed. I picked fourteen, fifteen, maybe it was sixteen, red hairs off of things today, and that's the only meaningless fact I can tell you anymore. I thought of something great, and I thought about writing it down. I need to rest up, then cuddle up with my biology book. I'm restless and I want to run somewhere dangerous and sleep. I'm lonely and I hate scraping cracked flakes of black off my eyeballs.

I'm not so sure I'm capable of studying anymore. Maybe after all these years taking great notes I've finally cracked. I'm hating modernity, I'm too tired to scam this instant-win game, and I keep listening to this same song. I suspect I'm annoying everyone I touch. I need a few hours just to read and a few people just to say they adore me. All the airplanes lately have been deafening.

Everyone, hit the ground
But never make a sound
Sending out the troops to take
All the lives that went to waste
- The Foundry Field Recordings, "Warning Raids Over Kiev"