A Morning

The morning wakes my eyes. All the feeling has left my arm and is now reading the warning label on my mattress. My head still hurts from the night before as I sit staring down into the hands of the clock, trying to think straight. Straight to the pencil that rests in my hand not at all connected to the paper. The words come, yet my hand just stares out into nothing and just a block away looms an unavoidable void of ambivalence. The emptiness churns with thought, of thought, of thoughts of what is to be written. The reoccurring thought leaps in and out of a perplexed person who is trying to define his own coroner's chalk line while hands of the clock keep waving me down, as if I had all the time in the world, not caring if I was in time or not. The nightmare hangs about me not wanting to fade into the dawn of a new day. A reminder. A conscious. This is going to be a long day.-Paul Tremonti