Quitting smoking is like living without punctuation. I'm not talking about the convenient absence precipitated by the advent of texting. Oh no! I wish my lack of interval was a matter of efficiency and convenience. Instead, my days feel like more of a run-on sentence with no end in sight.
A plottless streaming volubilithon. Forilla.
I need to form a new segue. Chokers used to catalyze my efforts and now I have a wall to jump over every time I switch tasks. And that is a frequent occurrence when you have an attention span of a moth.