walking talking question mark

i speak to the rooms in my apartment like children. i apologize, i console, and i make promises i am not sure i can keep. i move my bed into the dining room at 2:30 am and lament the insomnia...or is it the loneliness? i used to care less. now i worry...will it always be like this?

i yearn for a transformation, but a little passion would suffice. it's still not time however, and i am weary of my impatience and even more of my indecision. my youth has failed me, and the past seems trivial and yet still mocking. i have traded caprice for couches. my once quixotical heart gives way to a polluted complacency.