My mind is trapped in a bottle and nothing can touch it but chop sticks.

It’s the end of the night and I am still restless. On the drive home from work, I almost hit a deer. Or like what Brittany Said, “The deer almost hit me.” What the fuck? Nostalgia is creeping up on me even though I’m home. But this home isn’t home at all to me. I say this to myself because I’m relentless. I’m a dream catcher when all seems too comfortable and not difficult enough to take. She hasn’t left me. They haven’t found me. And it hasn’t come yet. All that I can do is work, think, and hope for all the best... well, ‘better’ than this whatever it is.