Your life is no longer insulated. There’s a draft getting in through the creaky floorboards. Sleep eludes you like a hunted animal. You are in someone else’s body living someone else’s life in someone else’s house. You are a mess in the corner of a room. People do not tread carefully. They stampede like caribou, busting up hearts and paying no attention. They do not notice. The open heart gives freely and is butchered ten thousand times. How to keep it from closing?
Every-day-is-just-the-same blues smear soot on your face in a not-beautiful way. What might have been is hidden away beneath stones of circumstance. The stones are too heavy to lift, and you wobble like a coin that has finished rolling. Dig for broken dreams or turn and walk away?
A mouse takes advice from the nearness of a cat. An egg likes its toast. The waitress rose at 4:30 to work the morning shift, serving breakfast to sweethearts and pricks. The man who smelled of wet dog ordered pancakes. It’s only time, it doesn’t matter, a steady climb, a pitter-patter of rain upon the windowsill, singing of a whippoorwill. What’s all the fuss about?