I feel like fighting, braking things, traspassing glass and turning it into rain. Parking my car between lanes, to throw rocks at stupid people (just like I imagined at school). I feel like swiming open seas as fast as possible, cursing whoever I recall. Like telling you to fuck off and give me my quietness back, and then suggest -with that same language of despair- that on the couch would be nicer than in bed.
But you're not here, and I'm making a salad with tons of lettuce so I'll fall asleep faster, 'cause I can not do any of those things.
I'm sure: if I'd smoke, now I'd be lighting a cigarette.