all days are nights.

The current feeling I am experiencing inside my own skin is that of the awkwardness in a strange house, tentatively perched on another person’s bed, in awe of the space where they stretch, yawn and sweat through the night. It feels as though I am not filling out my limbs - there is another of me, not a copy, but my own definition of myself, constricted and shrunken in the core. And I am unsure, I am exhausted, queasy in the face of my dull equilibrium. Something needs shaking up.