He was tired and couldn't think straight.

He was tired and couldn't think straight. He forgot names and places, forgot presidents and peoples faces, forgot lovers and poetry lines. He was muddled and simplistic, he was off track and a standing target. His eyes thumped, like they always did at times like this. He was a shallow ghost of his former self, his fever self. He was a whisper of remembrance to others, a footnote in their storyline. He moved his hand lightly across his face - his eyes closed, his lips parted, his chest started to gently heave. It took him a while to realise to himself that he was crying. Where the fuck? Where the fuck did all this come from? Not just the crying, the thumping eyes, the forgetting of poetry lines and faces, of being a standing target, of being a fever self - where the fuck did everything that he was and is right now - come from? He smacked himself across the face with his open palm, then smacked himself again. Too tired to be shocked with himself, too tired to proud, gleeful, lustful - he held himself gently, and comforted himself away.