Prescript.

A week away and before I left I tidied up, cleared out cluttered old drawers crammed full of the year-past's neglects, eleven months' worth of
what the fuck does it matter anyway?s. I tidied up stacks of slips of paper, handwriting askew, words and sentences and hastily scribbled paragraphs I had no time for at the time. I tidied up words frozen in time, words meant to capture everything about which I had no time to think at the time or the time to think.

Time, time, oh oh time.

I'm using up my time as fast as I can, wasting and, and spending and biding what I have left in hope beyond hope that there's not much left in the bank, no interest to accrue and oh the many thousands of dollars in my Roth that will go to waste, waste, waste, God willing. I'm spending so much time tidying up, airing out closets and wiping shelves clean, that I have no time left for the confetti of words flitting about, no time to feel what I don't want to be feeling. I have no time for anything but what little alcohol is left in my glass, what little alcohol is left in the bottle, what little time I hope beyond hope is left.

I have no time for any little thing but the tidying up of mostly empty strips of paper, little snippets of snippets of feeling I might have felt had I time enough to feel. I have no time to tell the story I wanted to tell, because my story's done gone on without me, done gone on and on and on and I don't even fucking know what.

My story's moved on because I just wasn't worth the wait.