there’s so much anguish for just enough money to live. just enough money to live. just enough to not worry every night about it all vanishing, hint-of-almond stress with no reprieve. it’s sucked the pleasure out of so many things; drained the desire to have anything to say, and to find interesting ways to say it. people say, “sounds like you’re doing better!” when I say that I’ve been working, because working is well-being and if I can work at least I won’t be hungry, even if there’s no desire left for the food
(I’m “fine,” just thinking)