Everyone else who is not already awake will be awake soon, maybe later.

I'm wrapped in a coat that smells like my blankets,
smells like the uncounted cigarettes I smoked before
the rain
and the snow
and the new year.

I'm fixing what I do because I can never fix myself.

I have so much work, so little focus, and so little time.

I feel like my morality might be the death of me if I don't get it under control.