In Scratch Papers

I wonder if my screws up here are still tight and working. Lately, I just couldn't think of anything to write, though I have this desperately stimulated mood to write. In the end, nothing comes out of me but stupid rants and confessions. Have I lost all my senses? too confined? too indulgent in my imperfections? I feel like I'm at my limit. I'm breaking down, but it doesn't seem to show. But I think I am. I don't understand. I notice myself becoming less at peace in my sleep. I get sudden bursts of stimulation. Sometimes, I find myself at the edge of talking. I seem to moan. Or groan. Perhaps my secrets are haunting me. Perhaps they are.