It’s clicking marbles off a blank wall.
It’s half-grown thoughts overgrowing half-grown thoughts overgrowing half-grown thoughts.
It’s the glass of water and the glowing edge of a door.
It’s the scramble for a notebook.
It’s 1:30, the lights in the brain haven’t shut off but the smokestacks aren’t smoking, there’s just a senseless whirring, there’s a scrambling, there’s no production, the breaths don’t reach the bottom of the well.
It’s the fading misfires.
It’s the noises in the night that you thought you forgot but you haven’t they’re still there.
It’s the run-ons the sentences the thoughts keep running on you can’t get them to stop they won’t quiet.
It’s the turning over and turning over and flipping the pillow and turning over.
It’s a living nightmare that comes out of your head called unending reality with no respite.
It’s the almost dreams and the false sleep and the dying pen and the unfinished book you stare at - temptations.
It’s the senseless heaving of a millstone uphill.
It’s paper bleeding with thoughts cut into it.