Late.

Forgetful, or wanting to remember.

A stroke of the pen, soft scratches on paper, texture and sound in the silence.

Reaching, for a feeling, for an urge, for a motivation so I don’t have to drive myself.

Always looking for a reason is the conclusion I’ve drawn of emptiness.

A paper covered in white, full of intention and time, looked at and seen as nothing.

Emptiness.

A void full, forever empty except from my own eyes, seeing fire.

Flames on the sand, a burning sensation of noise as the ocean fills my head, before awakened, from my stupor.

With blunt force.

What am I doing, who am I doing it for.

A rock sits watching in front of me, waiting for my next move, you move first,

I tell it.

Of course it doesn’t.