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The Bacchanalia Blues

So, so empty.

I don’t remember exactly when it started, but for most of last week and onto today, at about six or so, a certain melancholy possesses me that I seemingly cannot shake.

I surmise it is the combined wake of exhaustion and boredom, a rather deadly pair—not only lethal in their sullen effect upon one’s overall vim, but also likewise confusing—for just like Irish Coffee, one half would have me sleep, while the other yearns for an awakening.

This innocuous bout of depression usually begins on the bus and lingers for about an hour afterward. I surmise that the usual shower and slouching to read upon the couch dually lead to the shuteyes that immediately remedy these diurnal woes.

In the morning, as far as I can best recall, all is fine and dandy once again; and it feels as if this certain sombre sentiment had never set in in the first place.

The dusky regularity of my ashen sobriety does not bother me, for I readily blame it on this rut I’m in—a conventional routine which has me bowing to virtue more often, than reveling wantonly in sin.

I’m convinced that all I need is a little mischief to rile me back upon the righteous path to mirth—just a few wanking winks of tabu and some downright and dirty shame, and I am certain that this dour pall will disperse as quickly as it came.

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