Where?
What?

Just the wind. Just the window, thrown open to let the dark in.
It scatters the scattered papers.

Writing with my face in my sour hands.
Sisyphean, or something.
Shall I pretend I know mythology?
Shall I pretend I know my flaws?

The kindly woman said there is no right answer
So everything's wrong
And what's left?

Talents and cues
And social truths and
Relations and a trillion views
And still my head hurts

The wind's striking my window some more
Just take the cold and rub it in why don't you?
Why do I put up with it? Because it's here.
Because it's here and my head hurts.

There are the chimes - crying as they do
You might know the sound or maybe not
And my keyboard's stained with sweat - does that make sense?
The keys are all smudgy, you know? Don't you?

But there's the cold.
You all know the cold, right?
You know what it's like in the wind?
What it feels like for your head to hurt?

And then, you know how the wind sometimes lulls?
How it briefly calms itself?
But still my head hurts.