I sit with eyes closed meditating on days not yet lived. Dim lights outside sneak through cracks in window shades. There is no longer a clock here to provide the time; it has been rendered antiquated. It has lost its purpose. These days the numbers displayed read as how little sleep I have received. Heart racing, the mind contemplates Kindling. Is the future for us bleak like a barren heath? A pillow beneath my head, I attempt to play dead while shadows crawl across the walls. The engine overheats again. Acceleration towards God knows what. So many voices singing tense and unstable. Dissonance. Sleeplessness. Kindling, we don’t need to talk. What time is it where you are? Is it light outside? We don’t need to talk. What lays ahead for us, though indeterminate at the present time, will soon be revealed. We don’t need to talk.
