The calendar pages twirl in unseasonably cool breezes; apparently it is summer. You look over your paltry piles of words from the last few weeks, a great sadness in your chest over how easily you let your visions trickle through your fingers. A hangover drifts along my brow, more reminders that I squander my dreams at the demands of others. There was something I was meant to do, whispers itself across your to-do list, across your shivering skin, reminds you you built this entire castle in the sky on purpose. It will not make itself clear.
The truth is, it was always as clear as it needed to be.
You close the book on your lists, put away the voices that tear at you from the outside. On your windowsill, an old typewriter waits patiently. unruffled by the passage of time, by the storms of inconsequential minutiae. You lift the lid, take a deep breath.
Begin to remember why you came.
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