I wake at 5 a.m., cold from the open window. It is too early, but I toy with the idea of getting up while staring into the wall. The day will be beautiful, everyone says so, already it looks inviting. Wake again two hours later to mayhem in the west and wonder if everything is falling apart in these the end of days. If you were to die soon, what would you do with your remaining time, and you see not faces, not love, only words yet unwritten. You know what that means, even as you feign humanity.
You return to your room, ignore the sublime sunshine of a city in its prime. Write every story that tells itself to you. It is not time to die yet. There is too much left to say.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment