I am so tired that there is a monster of a headache building behind my eyes. It crouches, toad-like, filling the cavity in my head left by my shrinking brain. I am asleep on my feet. Two telephone conversations held with minimal involvement. I will have to apologise to both my mother and A at a later date. When I have once again regained coherence.

Too fatigued to live, too apathetic to die.

Found today, in the course of cleaning: a small packet containing four pills. Capsules, the sort you can open with ease to let the powder inside out. Bright, shiny red. The label listed contents in chemicals names, meaningless syllables. I wondered what they were. Whether they should be experimented with. But then I figured that if the college's numero uno drug fiend was throwing them out, they couldn't be any good to start with.

I'm too tired to deal with people who think Being John Malkovich was the weirdest movie ever and just so brilliant. Too tired to try and find the words to explain why it is mundane, lacking. Good, but not that good, kiddo. Lost Highway, City of Lost Children, Brazil. Now you're cooking with accelerator.

Did I spell that right? Any of it? Oh who cares. I'm going to pass out now.