most nights, after i walk through the frozen streets and biting winds to my apartment in the slow glow of the late afternoon, i climb under the blankets on my couch. and wait there until night takes over every room. and the only thing living. inside. is the flashing muted television. and my cold eyes blinking. when the darkness comes i fish through the air. perch in front of the glowering screen and try to write. i think the charged winter air blowing through the frame of the window in front of me swims in and steals my thoughts. because i sit here in the requisite nothingness. until my fingers ache with the damage of the draft. and i write nothing. not even a jag of zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz of continued pattering patterns of h8h8h8h8h8h8h8h8h8h8h8h8hh. to warm my hands back out of this numb coma. sitting here, cold and alone and without the motivation to vomit inane thoughts that act like they could be more than that through revision, i only just dream about the pocket of the couch in my living room. and the hush of the television. because there's nothing there to care about. there's nothing there to do, but wait. and wait for nothing.