It's silent in the underground, and yellow from the floor lamp with the bent neck--the one not quite broken enough to replace--and there should be noises outside but there aren't. It's black and gold outside from street lamps that could possibly be bent but-not-quite-broken-enough but you've never been close enough to one to really tell. They are very high up.
It's silent and there are so many words running across your eyes and you feel like there is something more. Whenever you feel compelled to let your fingers leak you know there is something more but never in your damn life have you known what it was. You wonder if you sit here in the yellow-and-black would the something more become something here. But then you think that would be an odd thing to see.
The purpley bugs that did such a good job of leaving you alone for months are back but shrunken, and they climb the walls tentatively, knowing you are now the one who was here first. It doesn't matter to you or them anyway. It isn't long until they're a tangled mess of legs between the whitewash and paper napkin.
Lines are being drawn and will be connected soon, you know. It's time to make a choice about when they connect even if it's far down the line. You sit and study the plastic slats of the blinds and hope that time comes soon.
