Every shift is a graveyard and every step is a sigh. Every smile from a stranger is a new cause for doubt and a lowering of eyes. So I'm dragging my feet around this place like I'm dragging a lake, trying to uncover a corpse; the remains of the hours still left in the day. I dreamt last night of resignation. Giving in's the stuff of dreams when buried 40 hours deep in another year-long week. Just let me sleep. It's a nightly reminder to my conscience of the comforts my compromises afford me. It's a story written on a bad check in red pen of failing to make these dead ends meet. Exhaustion closes my eyes for me. A few hours of restless sleep. Detatchment: Only slight relief. Cut my regrets with apathy. So what's the difference if there's a light at the end of a tunnel that will just end up caving in?