Crazily:

I would just like to say,
Today is a beautiful day.

And so I took a deep breath, real deep breath now. And the day is in my lungs. But you wouldn't know, would you. Do you even want to? How I spend my days flitting past feeling like a dandelion. How I spend my nights flitting past my thoughts, getting lost, getting mad, getting sad, getting around places; all that while I'm still in bed.

The poet who locked herself up in her room until she died. Was that tragic? Maybe she just wanted time-out. It doesn't seem like such a bad idea. Maybe she had a window like mine. One that could make me see out into the world, but cannot let me see into your head. But that other poet who blasted her head in the oven, not a good idea I think. Or were they the same person?

Time is like sand, seeping past my fingers faster when I seek to grasp it harder. I yearn like crazy to just give it no thought to throw it away and laugh blissfully and run away. But I can't, not with invisible ropes telling me to hold on, hold on. I will keep the sand together, I will muster all that I have to do so.

And when the time comes, when all the sand is gone; hooray. I will let go, and then rejoice, for no dismay shall come to me further.