Even the lightest unexplored anger brings me hours of nothingness. Unsatisfied. Unheard. Unable. I lay upstairs hoping a change of venue will work but also because I know it will poke her unfairly and give me an attention I want. It’s stupid because it will be an angry attention and drive us further apart until I can claim justified isolation. But for now I’m just up. Working old wounds like they’re all I am. And I feel that shame too. Nothing’s working at all except the clock.