A mad race begins without announcement, you are on the conveyor belt before you've even thought about running. Still packed bags pile on top of each other, the corners of my room are all drifts of sand, I don't know the last time I sat still in this room and remembered my name. But a Sunday afternoon arrives at last, all silent telephone quiet sunlight peace, little whirls of dust settling on every surface, headphones full of beat poets, head full of fantasy, and here you are again. The little voice inside your chest stretches her limbs and tests her range, the big synapses in your brain fire off mad ideas into the quiet afternoon, you recognize everything that bleeds on to the ticker tape and you can only hum in agreement. A small candle flickers in your coat pocket; it looks different now, but then, so do you, and perhaps that is all right. You hold what you've lost in one hand and what you've gained in the other, trying to gauge if they balance out. But in the back of your mind, another song repeats, louder and louder, until you forgot the burdens you carry:
Nothing matters,
but the words you leave behind.
Monday morning arrives, an empty to do list awaits instructions. You are here now.
Get back to work.
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