Calm
Silence. Cicadas. Keyboard clicking. Darkness. Calm. Garbage night. Reading. Indigo — but not mine. Quiet, quiet. Night. The highway: muffled. Calm. Tired. Calm.
Wednesday’s “Author’s Note”. Prologue-ing the middle-of-the-week day, still in night.
Slow. Relaxing. But not, too. Empty. Earlier. A hazy warmth surprising: outside. Air-conditioned, here, to Autumn. Tired.
Sad. But.
Vaguely.
Typing. Feeling sleep at the edges. Wednesday, and the cicadas are whispering in the darkness beneath a murky sky that barely lets the stars glimmer through. And me typing in the over-all quiet, my eyes tired and wary of an early rising.
Quiet. Calm. Silent.
Mostly.