Stale and sweet, I'm a dish rendered cold in the storms that rage within me. Questions of desire and desirability seem just out of reach as the dread of dreary days, unclimbed ambition, jittered effort take the fore-stage. Potential energy that I wish would just turn kinetic, turn this immovable rock into steady projectile. Every step I take seems to make very little progress but the days ride on nevertheless. Another sunset, another weekend, another year. I am but a conduit of time, it flows through, changing me less but charging me more. How do I register a complaint against Chronos, the chronic chronicler, who left behind the pages of my future to another God. The one unbesmirched by the clock, the one that bears glocks and eroding rocks alike. The one that bears the name that never changes, Death above all deaths. Le petite mort, le chungus mort.