I can see the black shells of flies on my windowsill. I see the ugly water stains marring the blinds. The blown-out windows are streaked with milky tears blocking my view. If these aren't signs, I don't know what are.
Writing at Night
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The early hours and I’m wrestling in the dogged heat, sleep as elusive as any dream. Yet, I have no reason to be so desperately alert beyond the worrisome voices that so often flirt with me in…