Flavigula

Perhaps it is the fact that I have been fed constantly since returning. I feel the weight press in my hara. I clumsily wander the house. Now I sit up in bed. It is 19.35 and I am considering remaining in the same place for the remainder of the evening.

I think to myself that soon I’ll have the experience of actually missing the feeling of hunger. It never occurs here. I am perpetually sated. Unhealthiness shall follow, for there is no opportunity to exercise. I need escape. Soon.

So, as my mind is muddled, unclear, unsharp - most likely from the same catalysts that begot my physical lackadaisicalness - I shall watch a film. Perhaps it will pull me in. Another world? Another time? Escape. Soon.

I just watched part one of “Until the End of the World”. It is cheesy, backwards looking, thin but very enjoyable. Something about Wim Wender’s work appeals to me. The three negatives leading my description were purposeful, I am sure. True, however - the sheer length of the film is daunting. The weariness clasped to me still makes my mind stagger. This clattering wreck of a paragraph shows it well.