The basic disruption of reality occurs.
Sitting here roiling in technolust and locking into the lust addiction, the thrusting empty longing for useable hardware. Suction. Alas, the spare six grand sitting around to affect such a transition reclines in another life, its place in this one occupied by a lock into this funky situation in which Work and the home Work Station exert a magnetic sort of brainsucking reek, sucking motivation like a cheap whore salivates, saturating pubic hair.
Lot's of gear to rework, lots of shit to throw out. Hard decisions versus inertia, the iron maiden of personal preference, social morres, ease.
It's a slow process, the slack and the ennui and the boredom and the struggle to surmount the dumb realization that this isn't it, this isn't the place, or the time, or even productive.
Sluggish, the life of self-imposed temporally unladen goals.