The green leaves washed in the light of the sun looked yellow; the tree stood in yellow-green silence as the wind tried to get a rise out of it. An unseen, shapeless, colorless cloud – I really haven’t seen the darn thing – passed in front of the sun as other dirty-white, partially-torn cotton balls (or sick vape clouds) moved briskly along the sky blue belt. They’re moving faster today than usual. The smell of brown-sugar coated ribs assaults me from the oven downstairs – just morty fore minutes before charring them on the grill. I begin to hear myself breathe, and suddenly, I’m enveloped in the sounds coming from the click-clack of my keyboard; my typing slows to try to reduce the noise, but the frustration of words passing me by urges me to sacrifice silence for more prose. The volume goes up, and the inspiration goes down. Coming face to face with the spectres of assumed creativity can prove to be quite a humbling task. It’s been a while since I’ve allowed myself free rain (simmer down, I know what I’ve down) over the downpour of literary attempts to create, to opine, to connect, to attribute, to illuminate, to narrate, to embody. 4/12 Kim paper #1 scrawled across a moving cloud reminds me that I’ve finished one of the milestones of this semester – I also need to wipe my window clean. A bird – probably – flies across my window. It could have been a bat. Or a bat. Or Badtz-Maru. Tippecanoe and Tyler, too. A smaller bird – seen this time – flies slower across my window headed in the same direction as the previous blurd (this seems the most genuine way to characterize the previous thing). I wonder where they’re all headed. Do they even know? Maybe it’s the annual meeting of birds in which birds of all feathers come together to resolve their differences in orderly, singsong manners. The crows and the sparrows would probably have much to reconcile. I yawn, and I feel somewhere behind my sternum, between my shoulders, right at the point of rising when drawing breath, go dry. Seventeen more minutes, and then it’s off to the ribs I go; my short, meandering, realistic, pointless, odd narrative is finally at its end as the bed calls for me to lay down and scroll until the ribs scream at me from their foil coffins.