underneath

Race through the days, you become the person who eats lunch on the 7th avenue local train and packs your bag for a handful of adventures at a time. Evening is perfect and cool, and you laugh in his eyes without being sure why. You haven't the time to think about it.

At home the word processor lies waiting, begging for attention. It's late, too late, you're drunk and delusional and the alarm clock is already warming up its siren song but no matter, you promised today you would write, so you do.

The race only serves to distract you from your purpose, but no matter. When you sit in stillness, midnight long since past and not a wave of tired in your bones, the noise falls away and the purpose is clear.

Did you put ink to paper today?
OK.