Dressing up in clouds so the rain can be my fault. This all feels familiar and more comfortable than it should. Starting out with nothing, as everyone must, time becomes the enemy. I could start counting backwards, but it will all wind up at zero. So much nothing that it manages to convince me that that there is something.

I suspect the sun knows everything, and the moon even more. Naming the hours as if that will help me find what’s missing. My otherwise empty heartbeats. Like quiet footsteps in slippered feet. It’s hard to tell what’s real in all this silence. Like being hungry until you’re not hungry anymore. It’s all a comedy until it’s drama. It’s all Shakespeare until it’s Thoreau. The words never even come close to rhyming, but when I hear them in my head, I could swear they do.