Wasted days

When you walk in the door and open your face I can tell immediately that I am headed for a rash of wasted days. And before you even begin speaking I am preparing myself for life on fast forward, speeding through the hours until sunset, sleeping till sunrise, speeding, sleeping, speeding to get some time behind me, however, whatever, I will just have to put some days between this one and myself, as a buffer or a muffle or something else soft and hazy enough to dull what will be just under the surface now for so many weeks to come. And before you even get to your point I have slumped somewhere deep into a hollow of terror, held upright only by a taut cord of certainty. Soon, you will be out the door and it will begin: I will begin to do all those unpleasant things I know must be done and fill my days with them unthinkingly, desperate to just keep going and going and going till suddenly this moment is too far away to matter so much and I can start slowing down enough to notice time again.