Batholith

Awaking to half clogged sinuses and that familiar feeling in my guts;
Variations on a recurrent theme.
Could exhaustion be the cause of my gastro-intestinal predicament or do I simply loathe my daily cell that much?
I choke down finely prepared sustenance, in the hopes that if I prepare it with care,
The gurgles in my belly will finally cease.
Too tired for the old routine; Too tired.
A firm belief is placed in the fact that coffee is all that's gets me through this morning;
And every morning, towels to bruised shins and a crisp shirt later,
The road is taken to a numbing punch-line: spinning my wheels until the week draws to a close.
Rinse, repeat; Waiting for the snow to fall.