Clock strikes eight, on the hour, twelve hours after waking up late at eight. Day has turned to night. Still sit idle.
Eyes opened at 8 o’clock in the morning to the sound of a bird chirping outside the window. Or was it the sound of the lamp by the bed going click-click-click, or the kitchen clock tick, or hum of the fridge.
Chirp of one became chirp of several – the chorus of the world. They and the world awoke all at the same time, and the quiet of the night burst into song. It is all.
For one could lie in bed forever like this. Let the drizzle softly tap the metal. To lull or to wake.
One sits alone.
Between the hours.
Between the tryst.
The Hungry Artist 