You could have written me tonight – the ghost voice of my open document fetters me in procrastinator’s guilt. I was only about to shut the day down the myriad windows lined at its tab each one just as lethargic of notifications. Kernels of solitude, I otherwise relished, smoulder as if on a heat of an open stove, hoping, tonight, sleep won’t be famished of dreams that haven’t been visiting for several nights in a row. I am diverted back to the first train – of thought – shut down the day, away through windows from where the trite world suddenly turns interesting, and life at the sky predictable. Write me out, the life out the windows you see while the heat of your vessel smothers unsolicited talk – with a purpose to distract. Do not divulge and write only to me; I shall bear within me your scandalous eccentricity. First published in In-flight Magazine