Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow . . .

1:02 am.

Tick tock the clock goes. Every stroke of the hasty hand of seconds strikes my ears stridently to my demise. It’s like I’m brainsick. The sound clutters my mind like a cloudy thought; a romantic dream; a crooked nightmare.
Typing away, I am, pressing these dark and dirty keys one at a time, relentlessly, like my life depended on it. Yet, it’s all meaningless. Empty words and faceless phrases attack the computer screen with pleasure. I’m trying to think of an idea to embellish with captivating language sprinkled with a touch of the abstract. Something to write – a poem, a prose…anything. Thinking, thinking, thinking. I listen closely to the swirls of air dancing, the silence wandering the room like a stranger; It's soothing...but no ideas, nothing. Fuck. My eyes are starting to mound with sleeping bags. I can feel my eyelids trying to hold on to each other for more than just a swift second. Widening my eyes isn’t helping much. It’s just making me look crazier than I do. Remember kids, images are crazier than they appear. Sounds crawling through the speakers are the only thing keeping me awake...but not for long.
THINK JEAN, THINK! THINK! I’m pounding my head for an idea to surface. I’m scratching my neck for inspiration to slither out of my veins. My eyes are drifting away from the screen to spot an idea on the shadow-ridden walls of this apartment; stacks of papers, black pens, flowery curtains, burnt out batteries…nothing. This is more bullshit than FOX news. My imagination is lifeless, like the broken printer in front of me. Stupid printer - couldn’t print a resume when I fucking needed it.