thoughts before sleep

silence of this city
that is never still
and i wonder on this life
this life that is mine

"how much did you write today?"
"you write everyday?"

living is informing
being is compiling

the calm of this now-ness

how is it that i came to have all this?
how is it that i am here
on this grant
doing this thing i once dreamt as a child
is there really so much power?
is it really so?

and will the phone hum tonight?
or remain like this day
silent
still
unafraid

tomorrow will be two weeks
(only)
(really?)
so much living has transpired
a wanton wish
is truth

fantasy is now a bunch of emptied bottles
hazy memory
and heavy sighs

and what i wish for next
the question now has changed not to
"will"

but

"when"