I wish the words would come. I wish they would flow like the waters over Niagara, but they don’t. They are hidden in the recesses of my mind, running from my fingers like shadows from light. I have things to say, ideas to express but when digit hits key all seem to abandon ship. If I cant write about something, I will write about not being able to write and hopefully in some strange magical way, I will write.
Darkness encroaches. Walls hum with bass. Familiar voices call from mesh covered boxes. Pictures of friends past and present float through my mind. Memories fight for attention as my hand takes refuge under a chilly pillow. A small bed made large by its emptiness. A lonely night. The waft of the fan and creak of the house conjures ethereal hope of a homecoming as I slowly drift to a place that I can be with the one I love.