A flaky wafered crisped off gloss paint corner to this notebook. The interior thread webbed spinal column showing through like a shard of bone bedded into an arm gash. I slowly tear off the outer layer to this mild annoyance, a persistenter perturbance droning in like an 8am hangover, spinning coloured fragments in the corner of the room. The remaining sentence is 2 hours 58 minutes, but it's usually all dried before then. This remaining sentence is very short. I think my run will break this monotony.