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I wait for inspiration and refuse to put on heat. Remember my tea, it's cooled off too much but it'll have to do. It's hard sometimes, soothing myself into an early state of sleep. The body kicks in and confuses, not Christmas Eve, but an anticipation for something that isn't even there.

I stare at my clothes and know I need a purge. I need to clean out everything: my closet, my desk, my mind. Papers and old shirts, dramatic ideas and half-songs sung with words I can't let go. If you repeat the placeholder enough it sets itself in stone.

I wait for the call I know is coming. Answers I'll have to provide, later rather than sooner and that was my mistake. I am figuring out a lot of things I should have figured out a long time ago. I only hope that never changes, and most of me thinks that it never does.

I stare at John, Paul, George, and Ringo. A perfect storm, a cosmic aligning. I shake my internal fist at my aligned cosmos, I wish to damn hell they had ru it by me first. I am trying to follow the signs. I am worried that I will split myself in opposite directions and each path leads to my undoing.

I wait for it, the tea to kick in, I rub my feet together. Slowly warmth is coming, slowly my knees keep aching, slowly I'm forgetting. People come in and out in an instant. I am holding open doors and windows, trying to let the light in, only trying to say hello.