Red digits. He is tired. The long hours have stretched him thin. Faint wisps in the world. He reclines. The inviting shallows of sleep come. He tries to settle his body, and he prays to his spirit saying to no one "You are lucky and blessed. Think of all the great music that has not been made yet.

My thoughts pick their way through my mind like Bert Jansch. I wish.

*

#writing #bertjansch #mentalhealth #loneliness

Austen thinks for a split second Are my fingers dead? Has my sense of touch been killed off? His handset screen remains undisturbed, disinclined to react to his touch. Austen's levels of AQT frustration rise. A damaged handset has dire consequences. Eliot will terminate contact.

The white tube light blinks above the sink and shines and Hibiki thinks of a toothpaste fish. Pots bubble, steam rises, a generous ghostly heat roams free while angry August rain percussions his family home. Mother silently orchestrates a meal. The clock-face on the wall chooses to say nothing.

It is dark and you tell me to wake up.

Put some clothes on. Bring your bedside clock and meet me outside in less than five minutes.

In the summer wind the trees are turning. The bend of dense foliage. I think of soldiers dancing. War is over.

How would you define maudlin?
Astrud Gilberto.
Girl From-
Yes. And when she died.
-

The voice app on his smartphone captures the following silence but doesn't see the way her face changes, the way she is thinking right now, a quick sketch of beauty across the eyes, he sees.