Frustration hangs like dead weight on my bones, curling my posture inward, hunching me over; hooked in like anchors on my collarbones, buried deep in the crevices and hills of my joints. This ennui will not be shaken from me. All the words I cannot find expand in the spaces between my ribs, aching to get free but too bulky, too palpable, to get out. I drink my tea, I smoke my pipe, I wait. I watch the hours pass in gradual succession, one after another, each longer than the last, as one watches a death march. The bitter taste of despondency like raw liver on the back of my tongue.