Sometimes, I count the hours

They propel themselves through the air like a fruit fly in search of factory-assembled, fructose-injected perishables. They only have hours. I used to crave the freedom hidden inside of a cave, I used to gaze longingly out the window, desperate to roam aimlessly and alone. I suppose when you're settled into a comfortable cycle kept on its track by a practical and rational force, you desire less control, more spontaneity. Now that romanticized notion seems terrifying and intimidating. Now, because there suddenly is no cycle at all. Certainly no comfort or contentment. One can try to reconstruct these things artificially, and maybe they weren't even so terrific in the first place, but now it's consuming.