All I want is more time; nice if in the shape of a reading room, 
zero emergency phone calls or text messages, with a plain
bench and uncluttered desk. But would it be unseemly to also
yearn for a karaoke mic for belting torch songs when one's
capacity for solitary endurance has reached its limit?
Except I'm currently stuck in the flaps of this mood; can't
ditch it for good, despite light therapy. You know
women aren't the only ones afflicted. Given the global
environment, everyone I talk to seems on the verge;
vulnerable, feeling all the feels. We commiserate, mostly.
Food is also diversion: nothing like old-fashioned pigging out;
unlike the fakeness of that Peloton commercial in which these
good-looking, what-do-they-need-to-work-out-for-anyway people
touch a screen and, voila, simulate a slalom down winding
hillsides, even if they're in an uncluttered room with a window
sleeker than a giant plasma screen. They hop off, gushing
I'm changed! The price of that glowing makeover machine
runs over $2K: more than an adjunct's monthly salary; or
just a bit more than the cost of a new fence. And we need one
quickly, or before winter does the old one in. Things are so
killjoy like that. What I want, what I need: though I've said
pah to every Black Friday sale, another kind of void, a secret
laryngitis, makes the soul feel scratched, hoarse; or worse,
opiumed into silence. Weariness, wordlessness: almost
made from the same disheartenment. Remind me again of the
numinous: that reverent feeling, entering a temple or mosque.

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