Like a spigot that I open on my head.

The mountain of clothes and dishes is some sisyphean plot to bury me.

The air is swirling with the escaped moments, dreams, thoughts, pieces of who I used to be. I am that person still/again? I am something new. I am a teacher. I pass on knowledge (or at least relay it from other people.) More of a collector and disseminator. Disseminating to my seminal works. Ha!

The layers of dust are thickening. There is a film on the walls, on my skin. It is reaching into my ear. Water doesn't remove it, though I try nearly every day. I need the wind to wash it off. Is it ready to burst forth? I feel that small stirring of force. Will it sustain? Is it the magic? Time will tell.

Time for spring cleaning. Open the windows and let the outside air in. Let the fleas breath the awesome spirit of... something. The breath of the world removing all filth. A cosmic enema.

Who knows what tomorrow may bring.