Tomorrow should usher in hard winds and rain and I should be limited to the dark and cool limits of my bedroom. Or at least, I should like to be. Only I will be obliged by the matriarch to answer to the calls of “the baguettes” which is how my mother refers to my grandparents. I have spent the past month deeply immersed in my studies of art and spoonfuls of coffee-cannabis afternoons. My body quietly wails tired drunk; I wish I could garner the strength to make a bouquet of my time– to pluck accomplishment from its root. I would like to finish my God-awful book whose protagonist pursues only manifestations of monteary value, and who is blind to “frivolous” matters of love and pleasure. I long to be myself again, only I am plagued by the very feminine cortizone that bubbles in my stomach that begs me to spend my time tearing the hairs off of my head and crying in my bedroom.