a jumble of disjointed sentences

Time is doing what time does.
Moving forward.
Uneventful for myself, not so much so for others.
The world is always burning, but this is egregious.
Anything I could write would seem empty.
Comfort is comfortable but not always great for the soul.
I haven’t had much to say lately.
I’m good, truly, but the words I hold all just feel like noise.