Pray that something picks me up.

These last few days in Calgary have made me incredibly fickle. As a result, all I seem to be able to do lately is smoke like a chimney because I'm so bored and I feel so murky and I fucking want to claw my way out of my own skin. It's absolute zero in here and my brain will freeze over unless I get on that plane rightthissecond. Six hundred miles per hour on a direct flight to the ocean is the only thing that will solve this little disagreement I'm having with inertia. I ache for the tide's heady whisperings like a lover's lips on my ear because right now without them I can't write and I can't orgasm and I can't sit still even though I would like very much to do all these things. I have thirty-six hours left here. I've gotten so close, but close is just not good enough.