because the call is never important enough, and the food laying in the drain, washed out and soggy wasn't eaten for the same reason. I never find the time to express myself, and the life force is being sucked out of me. I wish I could give up all this and stay up all night and create but its impossible, there is always something in the way. Never enough time to write, or to draw or to be human, only to be absurdly self aware. If I could give up one thing it would be to cease self consciousness, to be but a working mule for my craft. To give it my soul. Why do I find the obligation to sacrifice my soul for apathetic but snide and criticizing public, to be a wasted, idiotic martyr? To give up so much life to pitiful unfulfilling work? The answer is total self destruction and guilt. My wish is to be the weed that sprouts through the asphalt, and not the little bird that can never take a chance.