I have not eaten and I cannot be bothered to eat. My eyes ache, and I cannot be bothered to take out my lenses. I almost didn't bother to shower, but the pleasure I take in scented soaps is a pleasure that rarely fails me.
I cannot even say I haven't been working. I have been. It just hasn't been enough, and it hasn't opened the trapdoor in the upper reaches of my brain.
I'm addicted to a drug of my own making. And once in a very great while, I cannot supply it for myself, and so I walk around craving, and nothing else suffices.
All of which is to say: the post-novel burnout hasn't gone away yet. One of these days I'm going to wake up with an original thought in my head, and I'm going to put more than a few words in a row again, and it's going to be absolutely wonderful... and until then, I'm going to ghost around the house and eat stale crackers for lunch and listen to Wilco all day.
Kids: just say no to writing.