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Sans CaffeineAll I do is sit with my head in my hands, unable to think. And I stare out the window at myself, as I squat on the curb like a blind beggar, holding out my empty cup to the agitated passers-by: those who have had their fix of morning coffee. I keep falling asleep in the middle of my work, with fitful dreams that are not Wish-fulfilling Gems. How many days will I languish here, like a marionette hung up by its strings in the dead master's attic? Perhaps the wind will blow in through these shattered glass panes-- enough to make me dance and swing in mid-air; enough to dispel these wistful and abortive dreams. Published: September 2005, Last Modified: May 2011 |
