Melody

The days melt into one another, the weekends appear like strange anomalies of the same lifestyle, only amended. Unemployment itches. When one means to be a writer, there is no such thing as rest, and yet in crisis how there is competition for the crown. He writes stories so evolved I want only to spend my days trying to compare, this is a gift. The mess piles up around me.

But there is a small voice, in the back of my head, steadily speaking through the weeks. Most days, the streets are too loud, the calendar too noisy, and it's hard to hear it, to not mistake it for an annoying vibration. But in the silence of a world asleep, its quiet cadence becomes clearer, the words forming against your bated breath.

You asked the Universe for a change. You'd do best to listen, when it comes.