on levels of distraction

And even this impotent and watery diatribe is ink across a page, spilled in service to distraction. Disgruntled, suspicious, and fiery sideways glances are loosed all too often from my eyes. As if indulging in entertaining distractions is somehow a higher crime than the stoking of my angst with a pen. Alas, soon night will fall and I will numb the lonely misery of meaningless drifting by bludgeoning it with a bottle. Perhaps there are levels of distraction after all. Perhaps mere leisure is an opponent unworthy to challenge the masterly honing of desperation into a fretful point that burns holes in my skin which will, of course, be cleansed with copious amounts of alcohol. Yes, there does seem to be levels of distraction. But is my particular platform higher or lower than my neighbor’s?