breakfast

preoccupied with internal stimuli

is how i feeeeeel, and is my excuse to anyone who would ever think to ask me, "what's going on? are you okay? what are you thinking about? why are you so thoughtful?" the truth is the main reason i write is because it's something to do. with my hands. idle hands maaaaaake work that is dictated by the devil. idle hands create things in the devil's likeness. the devil is a sloth. the devil does not move so quickly. the devil may not move at all. the devil is a rod as god is a tree. god is a tree, and god sways. the devil is a potato, no, aaaaaaaaaaa simulacrum of a potato, seated in the chair at the head of a dining room table. the devil sits there and sits there and sits there, making trouble for the people around him. the devil continues to find work, seemingly no matter what. it seems like no matter what, the devil will find work for your idle hands. this is why this is why the best way to think is to write. i can already feel my energy suckingness coming out of the picture. i am not so much of an energy sucker now that i feel i am not manifesting, for some reason, annoyed and wicked and vile and spiteful energy toward the people around me, who are in their own flow states, busying their own hands.