Punch drunk.

Sigh.

Possibly the cheapest Nikkor prime at $330.

Tempting, yet the throbbing pain at the back of my head - a nauseating mixture of logic, self-assessment and perhaps, the lingering remains of expired bread crumbs from last night's dinner - asserts itself once again, reminding me of the likelihood that I would use it extensively for a week, stare at it for another, sleep with it blissfully for a few days and then let it rest inside the potential fungi-farm that is my camera bag indefinitely. Until moved to appropriate dry cabinet.

Sigh. Again.

This reminds me of how exceedingly exhilarated I was when my father handed me a book on South Beach Diet. And then gave up after planning Day 1 meals.

Or the time when I bought $110 worth of books and magazines but have not finished reading them. Any one of them.

I can't help but wonder if I'm more attracted to the thrill of possibilities rather than the eventual product.

After all, it's been a long time since I last said this is better than what I imagined it would be.

Or the last time I said if I have this, I'll be good. Content.

The present seems divorced from those moments.

And thus, for now, I'll never be satisfied.

The headache's back again.
Blasted.