These days, it’s all the same, the rains clouds are gone, though I wish they would be here everyday. But when the clouds above drop cool rain, it hits the ground and makes its own southing song. I listen to it, and it relieves me of my hate. I watch as it glides down the window, thinking why life is moving so fast and not slow. Why the things in my mind won’t last and why I’m in woe. The problem it seems to be is my own making. The faces I want to see, but walls and a glowing light confine me. Slowly the sloth has pulled itself on my head, and I sit here thinking, is silence only for the bed? Am I just a boat that’s sinking? Where am I to go? What am I to do? Am I stuck here paralyzed like a gnome? Or am I like a Joey trapped in the pouch of a kangaroo. I look up at the cloudless sky and there is nothing to see. No light, no stars that create a being. But the tunes in my head and hands keep my mind going, even when I feel I’m unknowing. And every note of every line, every key, and signature of time. They have endless possibilities, but it seems you need a key. You enter your mind, and make yourself comfortable. Then the door locks and you are trapped, you are the person they can’t find, abandoned and now minimal. The words in a box, morose, when no one knocks.