One of those days where the apathy, the indifference, the vacuum – all outside my control – are weighing on me. Might be a byproduct of high blood sugar, first in awhile – or the cause, the symptom or. Can never tell. But oh well, hell.

And so I rhyme.

Thinking: Do I need to amplfy my ambition for MainFicThing to make it a publishable short story? Push it – push me – into the next step? Or am I content in the confines of my own agency?

But nevermind: that's committing the cardinal sin of my thought processes: form before story. Never worked out / lesson (mostly) learned.

Regardless: only way through all of it just to do the work and let the shit I can't control be relegated to the "fuckit" box. Easier said than done: this is the perpetual practice.

The day awaits.