The afternoon drones on in that comatose state that January pulls across your eyelids, but by evening my veins are on fire, neurons racing down their highways and you lose track of time. Is this what it is to live on your own schedule? Soon the doors will open again, and you'll lose track. But you cannot live in this shoebox forever. The temperatures plummet, and finally the apartment gets by without windows open. Winter is here, just as you are ready to break out.
Magic appears when you run this rope to the end of the line, emptiness is a hell of a hallucinogenic, you discover things when you walk the high wire. Let it all steep for a while before putting it to paper. There's a dream at the end of this curiosity, there's a shimmer in this cold January, winter is catching up to you but the Darkness is running behind, your legs are burning but they hold up, there's a
light at the end of this night and you are
going to reach it.
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