Buzzards are encircling. Every buzz, every peal, every festivity transports trepidation. Every impending call-in seizes me with consternation. I am running out of ideas to get a breakthrough. The eremitical circumstances have prevailed for too long. I have had enough of a fugitive’s life — enough to reach a breaking point.
The attempted relief work from outside has only exacerbated the situation. It’s proving to be an unwarranted source of angst. I am unable to address the essential issues because of these distractions. I have to get the monkeys off my back, even if by subterfuge. I am beginning to lose perspective on life. The same cycle has been going on for two-and-a-half years. I feel as if I were living the same day over and over again. I wonder when I will get out of the whirlpool of monotonous disquiet.
The canvas is a mess of colours and meaningless patterns. There seems to be no tomorrow. The state appears to have reached stalemate. On the square of a vulnerable King, nigh on to be killed.
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