Three attempts to describe my

There are few funks so bad as unmotivated idleness. Days just seem to flicker on and off; I completely missed Tuesday this week. I cannot say with certainly that I didn't sleep through until Wednesday. I sit down to write at night and feel as if I'm trying to write for the first time in my life. Nothing is distinguishable; it's all perpetual state vacillation.

perpetual string of 4'o clock devaluations, which began when I unintentionally let a day slip by unnoticed. I suspect it was Tuesday got away, but the labels may have been switched. It was Thorsday when I noticed the discrepancy, but by this time, there was a throng of interrogators demanding an account of that lost time. I plead no contest, and took a sentence of labor; they were dubious.

I once lost two pages from a book while trying to free it from its ignoble job as a door stop. As soon as I was able to wrest the book from where it was bound, the papers had found flight on a sudden breeze brought in by the Gulf Stream, as part of an unlikely state referred to lovingly as a "dip" by meteorologist P. Boyle. The pages of the book numbering over a thousand were reduced only slightly, but had been so efficiently plucked by chance that the book as a while lost all readability. The character introduction of Rodey Kickham, and the moment when the hero is killed before his mighty friend were both gone. In this new book, for it was so irreparably harmed that it could not be referred to by its original title, a mysterious Rodey Kickham walks the length of the book with an unexplained limp, and the hero goes missing having received not so much as a scratch while fighting before a bank in Troy, Alabama. I have, from that moment, felt compelled to bring dignity back to that deficient book and substitute two pages of my own wording. I have appealed to the courts and I have petitioned a man named Bygmester, but I am still unsure if I am qualified for book repair.