Fuzzy head

Type type typing for the sake of...typing. The tapping noise helps fill the office with something to break up the atmosphere which feels stony cold. It's been a very quiet week so far which drains me far more than when there's lots going on. My head feels fuzzy and that artistic motivation has now left me, it feels far away. 

My days just feel like one long train journey, constantly stopping and starting, never reaching full momentum. I haven't spilled my thoughts for a while, but there doesn't feel like there's much to say. Am I happy? I think so, but am I satisfied? Not really. Am I still hopeful about the job? Yes, but still nothing is certain. I dream of handing my notice here, oh I relish the thought - the look of surprise, the counting down the days. Never having to do the journey home speeding through the cramped underground to wait aimlessly on a platform of grey for what feels like eternity, so get squished down into bulks of other people turning large newspaper pages, tutting and rolling their eyes. Nothing will hide the grin, I know it won't. Sigh, I hope it won't be long to wait. Mark has no idea how high my hopes are pinned on such a position - not even one that's particularly impressive, just one that's closer to home, that will be busier and more youthful.

Sigh. The link between my fingers may be weak but they're still crossed...