A Spec in Time Series

Words wash down over the smoothed rocks of the mind. Splashing onto the page that exists no more. Old idioms die hard. Tapped keys with a rubbery feel, keeping tea from where it does not belong. To the hard drive, to the cloud. The new basin, where the waterfall of the words resides. Pain grips my shoulders, ribs, and neck. I didn’t do enough today; you did too much today. Sleep little one. Yet, the words wash down over the smoothed rocks of the mind.