Blinds sway to and fro.
Breathe in and out.
The morning's first sign of life;
He glances up without seeing.
Muted warning of eroded batteries—
The only company offered at this hour.
Even the birds and wasps still slumber.
Rotting wood marks my seat
Among greenish painted panels.
Fowls chirps
Awoken in response to this text.
Foul scents of stale ash
Rebelliously arisen.
The soft point of this tool
Clutched between raw fingertips
Serve as the only remaining reminder of reality.
Though it calls out to persuade of alternate universes
Through vibrations of ink against paper.
Logic has become
'One last cigarette.'
Time surrendered pages ago.
I stare into my little room from the balcony outside.
My thoughts return again to the most prominent desire to live in a place where it always rains.
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