not a metaphor

there's an umbrella in my shower, it's thundering outside, and last night i dreamed of West Baltimore. none of these things are (particularly) related, and i feel like i'm living in some strange Kafka cum Camus world of rainstorms and approximate deadlines. but this is beside the point.

the point is that my current experiment has neither design nor hypothesis. so far the main result appears to be a slight resurfacing of my latent existentialism, mixed with an almost Homeric sense of voyage and discovery. i do not know where it ends, but it began in earnest four days ago when i decided to modify my journaling ritual. i'm spending less time interrupting my day with the pen, and as a consequence i can feel my concept of self beginning to unravel...

i am [insert fiction here].