He woke before the sun crept through the drapes and the curtains and the moon were still light blue against the black sky and his bed and blankets were warm but below the surface temperature of his skin was a cold that held winter hostage in his bones and his eyes were open but his heart refused to budge beyond the bare minimum of beating to keep itself alive and he tried to move his legs but they were in favor of his hearts control and the hours passed and he found himself twisting and stumbling through the boredom of his hands and spent too much time being self indulgent in self gratification and the sun had been spilling across his bed and his sheets hours before he found himself in a brief moment of unsatisfying ecstasy that did little more than leave a small stain of self loathing on his skin and his sheets...

It was past noon by the time he found himself doing as little as possible while sitting on his living room couch eating his breakfast/lunch staring at the blank screen of his television he was too tired and too lazy to bother to turn on.   Trapped inside his fingers and his sketch pads and note pads where dreams and ideas of great ambition and the weekend was fading into another three days of regret, things he meant to work on, things he meant to research, people he meant to call and meet with, would be put off for another week or two or months or years or till death did him part from living.

He sat mostly motionless, stuck between napping and a desperate want to do something... anything... and one o’clock became three o’clock became thirty-eight minutes past four....

and eventually he cracked open his typewriter and his heart went quite long enough to hear its own beating and then it helped him move his fingers and let his mind wander and dream and tell stories of mice and gods and moons and loneliness...

and it wasn’t much, but for at least a few hours between now and his death he could feel his heart began to warm his bones and release the winter that had been held hostage within them... the day was not won or lost and there would be more days of struggle and more days of failure and occasional days of success of effort and that was his price of being, his payment for living through the bad to get a little good, change was not an easy battle when battling things unknown but he would try more and more and in the end did not hope to win but he did hope to live beyond just the motion of doing so, to live with the effort of purpose of doing something more than nothing at all