“There’s so much I could be doing.
So much that I want to do—even if I don’t know what it is that I want to produce.
But I can’t go faster than I’m already going and I’d rather die than stop but… where else is there to go?
I’m so… so scared of lying still and yet too mortified to switch gears.
Now all I do is linger.
In bed.
At the dinner table.
In the shower.
Everything happens but me.
And if it keeps up, I’m going to die this way… having gone in every direction
—but not having reached a single finishing line.”
