I find my emptiness at the beginning of panic. The time changes, and as I pause, between the magic and the real, a sudden nothingness descends, and somebody goes away, plans forgotten and mislaid.
It does not matter that the dark falls too early, skies damp with the the hopefulness of being confused again. Even dancing holds no appeal, as the music is plastic pop with a beat but without heart. I sense the pouring little I've become, escaping only when hour clicks to another number.
Darkened rooms lend whispers. Can you hear them? Let the sentences drop and fall into a descending tone, for the collection of platitudes are heavily pregnant with hints of beeping bells.
They've gathered here, manifest with their antiseptic concerns Mumbling to one another even though the sentences are necessarily vacant. What small measure of happiness I am able to endure is saturated with routines that are tiresome, heavily laden with standing still in rolling cyclones.
I kick at the plastic straws that litter the drinking cups of plans come undone.