how do you begin to write about settling--about your arms feeling heavy, as if they could sink out of their sockets if they just dangled there long enough in idleness. the sickening feeling of literally just spending a day to spend it, to fill it with repetitive tasks of cleaning, and straightening, and justifying not getting out of bed. The satisfaction of a having no fear for money or security, just the slow grinding of dragging your calloused feet through the sand, or maybe even better the grinding it into the concrete slowly wearing down the calluses. It is work that is constant and uneventful and painfully mundane. There is a glint of fear that one day you will shed that last bit of dead skin and reach something pink and tender and go too far. sometimes this desire to keep grinding can only be counteracted by standing on your head.