so, if you've been battling demons and demands for nights on endless, and you have no blessed sleep in your bodily reserve, and you are paler and sicklier than your usual unusual, and you wake up in the bittersweet haze of having refound the ground beneath your feetly feet, hard and cold but aglow in the beams under white flying flag, and your room is a mess and your papers are scattered and the daylight's a fast folding chair, and the water runs out and your eyefingers burn and it's earlytoolate and you're thinking of her, don't listen to"the best of you" while you eat breakfast.
because you'll cry on your toast.
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