Spent all day looking out the window. Swaying in place. Staring at the grey cars crawling by, the grey drips, dripping from the roof, the headaches pounding on the door of the apartment. Gripped the grey curtain, numb, full. Roots growing down, down. Into hardwood floors, there for twenty years, decaying.

Every space was not bare. Every space covered with bits of nothing, bits of books, yellowing papers, coffee cups stained--grey. No need.

A heavy sigh. The curtain swishes.

photo by Brian Ferry.