clockwork

It is bordering four in the morning, that rough and solemn country where thoughts roam rogue and the mysteries of the night are outweighed by the baggage of so many missing dreams. I dawdle at the keyboard, wanting to spill enough words to free me from any further obligations. Wanting just to get this profligate posting business done with, to check one more thing off that never ending list of things I ought to do. The hours are turning, slow and cumbersome-- that slow fuse always burning, that sand always on the verge of running out. Three forty in the morning, and the time for sleeping has come and gone.