When you’re tired enough, when you’ve worked hard enough…you’re of no use to anybody, not even yourself. I like this feeling. My mind doesn’t do what it usually does in this state: it doesn’t guilt, plead, or beg the way it usually does. A tired body is the vessel of a farmer beaten to shit, getting home, tripping up each stair. Work hard enough, there is no writing, there are no dreams, there is no happiness, there’s nothing left to do. Only a few drinks, a weary smile and the chance to rest those feet while wiping away the condensation…of another night that got there before you did.