Never Felt More Like A Drink

Than I do right now.

Can't explain the desolation of the moment.  It isn't frothy or exciting or in any way revelatory or artful.

I've just come to the rather prosaic conclusion that the celebratory capacity of my life has withered into countless days of repetition.

You'll say I should have hope.  I should have it.  You're right.  Go out and buy me some and keep the change.

Update:  Like this:

"As I get older I have a fundamental and bothersome itch.  Maybe I don’t realize it so much as live through it.  The fabric of magic, that rough and thick seam of ideals and hopes and, what would you say?,  bliss?: the bliss of possibility, even if wrong-headed, is gone, or at least vanishing into a bit of a thin not-quite-tattered rug that’s made for utility.  What is the line, “these boots were made for walking,”? and it is supposed to be empowering, this line.  But what I know is that it is not empowering; it is real.  There is design, and that design is practical.  And it breaks down and leads to problems.  My back’s been aching, for instance.  I no longer feel the headiness I used to feel.  It is thinner.  Thinner, but just as intense.  I’m not on the right plane to view it most days, but some days it comes through with breathtaking clarity, making the other days dull and vapid.  As if prior to these years I was held back, pulling through a webbing, and I’d been complaining about it, implicitly complaining, but then, once it vanishes, there is a clear nothing awaiting me, only shards of the leftover needle plunge of infinity and effortless energy in all directions."