From what I’ve been able to glean, mostly from sugar packets and television, the exiled will inevitably grow accustomed to his habitat. Whether a cave or a church an island, the exiled eventually gives up investigating, gives up shaking against his cage.

I lull in my exile. All of my walls unchanged. My old worn carpet unchanged. The same curtains. The same view. The same couch-sit dent. The exiled will eventually be taken over by a sort of daze. It is the lull of dullness and the daze of acceptance.

My work, mindless data entry, all looks and feels the same. Haven’t I already done this? The clouds tonight look like October. It could be October. Time and days and season blend all up, indiscernible, indistinguishable.

This limp rant too, familiar. Haven’t I already felt it? Haven’t I already said it? Nothing is more intolerable than the déjà vu of limp dullness. Ordinary ad nauseum. Mediocrity revisited. All of my colors have faded out.

The exiled, no matter what his project, what his habitat, is doomed to repeat himself. The exiled, no matter what his project, what his habitat, is doomed to repeat himself.

Meanwhile, painters crack my door and disturb Murphy who barks interminably. They paint my door beige, the color of boredom. Meanwhile, the paint fumes get inside my head and the headache coming will perfect this wicked boredom.

Perhaps after the headache, perhaps after the paint fumes fade, perhaps tomorrow, I will manage to shake off this limp lulling lethargy. Meanwhile, like Lazarus I am left to linger and put out of mood to entertain.

SS