Work 23: Saturday Night by Lamplight

Tonight in the quiet house I write. It is one of the few things I can do. I can always write. The words spilling out of my ever-dying pen. It is like talking to a friend. I can say anything that I know how to say. I may not have a friend in one hundred miles but I can write. Doing so is something for my hands and my mind. It gives purpose to a listless body and grabs hold of a scattered head. On the page I have a place and in the ink a presence. If I am not here for somebody else, then at least for something else. I am surrounded by words and their permanence finds companionship in time while space is empty and lonely.


I see now that I need a new word. Nothing I already know will do. I need a word that once it is begun it will not end. The space between words leads my thoughts away. But if I were to have a big enough word I could just go on writing it and not stopping. It would say everything and leave room for nothing.