Some days, I don’t have much to say of sense.
Some weeks, it seems I can’t make out a Monday from a Friday.
Some months, I can’t believe how much time has passed.
And if Time has flown past on light wings leaving barely a breeze behind…then why am I still so tired?
Why do I feel like an tub of ice-cream that’s been scooped out, scraped to the bottom and has the memory of every spoonful being taken out of it?
P.S. you with the spoon, I think I might hate you. sometimes. maybe…
P.S. 2. But mostly not.