Only Sleeping

She recognised it with the fading music - the sense something was just eluding her, and coming up against the boxed up – clamed up version of herself. Her dilemma when she sat down to write - knowing there were things that she wanted to say but could not (Where was the assassin?). The answer always seemed to slip outside language into silence.

Perhaps it was always thus – lulled by the wee comforts of self-pleasure (‘tis no accident that is called O); the days merge into each other until she forgets when the holiday ends and the term begins. Later it seemed nothing more than an extension of her silent folly. As if there was something lazy - almost dull in her nature, just like that fellow in the song watching the world go by his window.