The days pass from under you, crawl uneasy underneath your skin, you begin to pace in just letting them pass. There was more you wanted to do, there is more you want to do, it claws at you in the early morning silences then retreats in the loud days. This isn't what you'd meant to do with your time. You long for the wild, for the space beyond time, long for a place where all you have is words.
It is time to pack up and go, again, is time to set back off on the journey you began when you crossed the Hudson River, you have grown too soft and comfortable again, and nothing wild ever came
from doing the least
of what was asked of you.
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