215 am: It’s quiet but not the kind of quiet that is welcome, like an old friend. This strain of quiet demands answers and excruciating meditation, perhaps even inoculation. It’s the most lethal kind.
Do I hear high heels on the concrete?
A car door slams.
A goodbye, a whole world half now.
A half world driven mad now.
216 am: I am tired and thinking too abstractly. Make it stop.
217 am: I am tired and too tired of thinking abstractly. I quit.
218 am: I’ll get up and have that last pot of coffee.
I now have more time on my hands to think, apparently.
219 am.