Exhaustion is a different rush.
The kind of tired when you can't fathom ever sleeping again, you've forgotten how to. Your feet hesitate, just a tad, before every step.
They're not sure if the floor is real.
Your arms weigh but a gram over zero, but there's an ache to every move, and you are a masochist now.
It makes words pour a mile a minute, your filter died on your thirtieth hour awake, and offended glares seem to glance off hooded eyes coated with tire. It makes you simply not care, whatever the fuck happens now.
That kind of exhaustion.
The addictive kind.
And guess who's addicted?
The kind of tired when you can't fathom ever sleeping again, you've forgotten how to. Your feet hesitate, just a tad, before every step.
They're not sure if the floor is real.
Your arms weigh but a gram over zero, but there's an ache to every move, and you are a masochist now.
It makes words pour a mile a minute, your filter died on your thirtieth hour awake, and offended glares seem to glance off hooded eyes coated with tire. It makes you simply not care, whatever the fuck happens now.
That kind of exhaustion.
The addictive kind.
And guess who's addicted?
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