It’s getting late, the sun long gone, the street lamps hum. The leaves rustle gently as the wind whistles by, rising now and then above the fridge’s solemn purr. I sit, poorly lit, the shadows droop along my face and I turn slowly page to page, stroking words with evening pace. The sofa moans objection as I lean to wrap my hands, all too familiar, ’round the dirty coffee cup. The spoon sits there a waitin’ while the kettle she’s a brewin’, making such a noise and such a show. The night rests close around the house, never far from reach, and I am wrapped up cosy in it, just as many times before. The clock hands shift, but making no intrusion, they move but bring no change, every minute like the last. I have all the time that’s in the world, snug in this winter coat, woven out of words.