Monday 3/20/2006 09:44:00 PM

The pen was in her hand. Poised just above the paper like a missile frozen in time right before impact. The shadow of her face was the only words she'd written there. She looked down at it and thought I've already said too much.

It was cold again.

She abandoned the task, turned in her chair and looked out the window. Second floor view of gravel and halogen.

They're always out there. Moving, but you never see them. The world is dead. Or I am. In the way once you stop living it's so hard to start again.

It was night. Like it always is. When she tries to press the pen to the paper, but it always stops millimeters away from it. When she sits and listens to the freight train in her head. Blowing its horn. Rumbling endlessly off into nowhere. No telling what it's taking there.

She'd always had the songs, but the harder she'd try hear to them the softer they would play. She'd always had the words. Trembling from within the ink. But the more she wrote, the less she was able to say.

It was quiet again.


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