Funk

Not the genre. The mood. The depressive incapacity. The head space that doesn’t allow for anything to be done. August found me in a funk;August’s almost gone and I’m still in that funk. September, October, November, December.

The only thing I seem to give a crap about are the plants. Otherwise, the day is a burden and the night is a weight. It’s one hell of a funk. Nothing really penetrates the clouds that surround my head and my energy. I can’t see anything to do. I may start drinking. At least until my way becomes clear to me.

My left knee fucked out, the last two times I went fast on the treadmill.

Funk. Funk. Funk.