It's 4 o'clock and all I want to do is write something. On my typewriter. Which is far far too loud for the small hours in a house full of sleeping students. So I bide my time, as I always do. Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow, as they say--until the last fell notes of the clock in which I believe only because I have to.
It piles up, the amount of brilliance I'm just waiting to unload--waiting for the right time, the right circumstance, the right experience--until I'm fit to burst, and then it's all forgotten. Gone with the sands of time whose fleeting fantasy guides us all.
Tick tock click clack. It calls my name, but I'm unable to answer. My fingers fizzle when they dare brush the keys. Never enough time. Never enough inclination.
And yet I can feel it, somewhere scarcely tangible. Building; growing; evolving. It seems only a matter of when...