It’s a mysterious day. There’s a conversation on my desk from the night before. From two people I’ve never seen. The night people. I’m thinking they are telling me something, that I should listen. “I want to leave early. So what can I do now?” The list of items to check, to clean, to refill.

The sky is licking its wounds from the storm. Gray holes, weeping wounds. I slept in this morning and now people are standing over my shoulders, telling me their stories when I need to be listening to my own. I’m worried about the meaning of things. writing about meaning. I need for things to mean something, the form taking over the language.  I need quiet and for people to stop walking into my room needing attention. Even the cat tries to curl into my neck.

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