theaceface

A slow, familiar, sunshiney sense of panic is settling in. It has a warm, amber tint to it, as it clouds the corners of my vision. It is so well-known to me that I can almost give it a name, like James or Tom, something I'm so used to seeing that it almost belongs there. It makes me unbalanced and I find it difficult to focus. It lulls me to sleep even when I've had a full night of it. It will eventually bury me, drown me, eat me, pick your metaphor. It will eventually take my limbs and shut off my electricity and internet. It could get me arrested or sued. It's happy to see me and it wants me more than most people do, except for my mother probably, who knows about this stuff.

All you need is love? Shit. All I need is a job.

Panic.