:: Hamlet ::

Sometimes I poise my fingers above the keyboard in a bid to write―but no words come. Not really anyway; slapdash atoms―parts of a phrase―coil around my head like eddies of an alien wind, taunting me with their strangeness, but there is nothing particular, nothing solid, nothing beyond my parabolic passion.

I miss the all-consuming liberty of sleep. I wake up this morning and wanted nothing more than a good book, a box of Belgium chocolates, and a strong shot of expresso at its bitter-fragrant best. That, and a long swim to cool off the poisonous heat; that and my mother's right hand to regain their agility; that and happiness for people around me to come surely as the inexorable sun.

In the meantime, I'm quiet inside. Emotions are wanton toys and I have no wish to play. Let me sleep a little longer then; there's no need to brandish your sword on the tangles of poison ivy around me. I'm in a coma, a reverie, and there is nothing to save. And so, bon nuit.