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In the continuum, nothing changes,
Day to day, night after night,
Even though tasks are accomplished:
Books are read, words scribed and corrected,
Chores managed, body parts strained and stressed,
Meals prepared, digested,
Holidays observed.
But all of this mechanical activity
Is mantled in a pallid monotony,
A sameness, a stasis of non-affection,
A weary, desire-free funk like a desert thirst
The traveler trudges with mile after mile,
Unslaked and frail and languid and lost amid
Misguided pledges of fountains ahead.