Every time I reach out for my mug of water it's empty. Oh the disappointment!
The dismay of finding night again inside your house. How does it let itself in, when I've forbidden its entry with all emphasis at my disposal.
Screamed at the sky to not let in anything remotely nightlike cross the threshold of my casa.
How does it then, just bleed in through the windows?
It's not liquid, nor is it solid.
It is just ethereal..that silly quality that things tend to have when they can't be classified.
Here it is again then. Burdening me with questions. It needn't ask, only present itself with the absolute truth of a dying day, and I'm answerable to having spent my time in a void of absent procrastination.
A full circle whirr of clock that comes about 24 times in a day..and look what the day finally dragged in; a dribble of obscure gloom that has learnt to feed on shadows.
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