I can’t sleep, the lags of jets catch up to me after many days of hiding and playing sick and sleeping with cough syrup. Tonight, after an hour’s rest, I wake rested but restless, phlegm growing like pulled cotton balls in my throat. I lay awake and wander the stairs, looking for the exit to this forever night. I grab my pad and scribble away. Words have avoided me lately and I have not want for effort to track them down. It seems such a pitiful thing, these words, wasting away as leaves at autumn’s end.

I read books with driving plots and riveting stories and wonder where my rivets and drivers wait. I miss the golden words that plead to be shaped, only beautiful when scribbled and three days out.

As I dredge through my half-slept state, my clock winds and my eyes lose focus, the words first doubling and then tripling until my stomach rumbles and my mind tumbles and I crawl back toward my dreams of sleep.