Not only do we have the not-living-in-reality element of the writer's life, a postponement of the decisions of life, there is in the weird twilight a vicious cycle.  There is the stress of jobs, and in a restaurant, with the job of being a wine expert, the calming at the end of shifts leads to the depressive effects felt the next day, that feeling, 'why get up, why do yoga, why even get up and write,' when all you have energy for is the getting ready for work, and then the shift that comes along that night.

You need to eat, and so you have to work.  You'll never get out of the cycle.  This is the backdrop of all intellectual life, and the fact of having done it quite a few years already anyway seem to lock down the lid of it upon you.  The humidity is high today, so what's the point?  Just drag on and go get ready for wine tasting night.  The day after Labor Day will be strange, perhaps, not busy, though you never know.  We only have a few of the bottles we tasting tonight, a rehash of earlier tastings, and no one coming in to help us out tonight.  Last time the boss did this to us, of course it got very busy, lots of tourists around jumping at the idea of free wine in an unfamiliar town.  Will my coworker be hungover as he often is on Tuesday?

Time for a shower.