'Of course, you know, it's actually.... me?'

Rather it is a delicate misbalance of raw emotions and the need to do better.
Dear me, what a sight. It's all in the rhythm, is it not?
Perhaps not when the sax leaks low.
I'm sure you will have already assumed to stop reading, as this is in no way poetry nor a story. It's just rambling, rambling I and you, following, somewhat meakly and annoyed. 'Is this the only route?' You'd ask, and I'd reply in verse and sing something Dury.
What I'm trying to say is, this is where I've been.
Neither at the desk nor here, at the desk.
Just, well, behind me here, reading or playing, I'm not sure which occurs the least.
I've become a shell, in which I reside, technically still myself in there, but... in there.
There are rude encounters, there are misramblings and there are words I never say but always ponder, lulling about in a universe so small, with very little to do, this little mind of mine. It doesn't do much, I mean, my body buys itself the time, and assumes it has achieved something or another or alot and then my mind sighs lethargicly and gives off a little.... increative steam.
Such a recluse, I appear to my mind's seven or so eyes to have achieved nothing, and yet my leg replies in pain and certificates arrive at the door with a familiar and overused name stamped on them (That no one has!).
And yet the parcel I wanted still has yet to arrive.
Derived but never without!
I'm so bloody happy you see, such a sweet occasion is an afternoon just like the one before, and with a canvas still in the shop and paint at my ankles, I watch the swirl of purple leak from my body and into the shower's domain. Blue, was it not? And yet I breathe this ghastly gothic !
'Ah yes, ask at the desk and become a minor....ity?'
'Oh it is you ! (I), and such changes you've made, you're the strange one we always assumed you would be, in a strange job, an odd partnership and a peculiar view! Why, how shocking?!'
Realities - 'You (I) have recieved one email'
Me - "Golly!"
Email - "Hope you're alright".

Don't ask me, for I am as mentioned, the crumb in your lemonade. I'm not alot else, I should doubt in the next week I will be, but don't forget to report back next year, I shan't be in this abode and I'm assuming by the power of Good, and Good he is, that I shall be painting a wall somewhere near a plant pot with a balloon of orange within it. Not a wicker basket. Darn, not even only having seen the advert for the wicker man and not the film can help my spelling now!

Stop by pretending and get out of your car at 4.31 in the sweet morning and tell us a story far off. Long off.

I'm already gone.
'That's not all I want to say'.