April thunders towards you on the horizon, the years disappear from under us, an entire life racing with the Red Queen and getting nowhere, but fast. I wake too early, strange dreams of a changing timeline lingering on my lips, but the rainy air cold beyond the safety of the duvet. You look around and wonder if this bedroom still feels like safety.
By mid day, I have begun the purge. How spring always itches in me, tells me to burn everything and bring only a typewriter to the next blank page, it's a tempting ruse. I weigh every post-it on the wall, wonder if I could live without it. Remember I lived decades with barely anything at all and can't tell if that's triumph or tragedy.
Return to the bed with a book and some blinders. Think maybe safety was only ever hypothetical, anyway.
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