And it is late and I am listening to Ani staring down three-weeks-ago's Plato response, a blank page with the question itself typed and italicized, a sorry excuse
think I want to cry, I don't know why - gonna sing myself a lullaby
                with October bearing down and the cold settling in. I reach up absentminded to twirl long pink hair around my pen - gone now, with the old jeans and half the library and the old PC and the kitten under the window and the wine residue by the bed. Gone with the stains of that year, the hairdye and black boot scuffs and pen ink and sheets in white and maroon. Tonight the bed is in another house the cats in different states the I the other who slept clothed over covers over tears naked now under stolen blankets a stolen year, secreted away and held safe out on the edges of minutes and ours. Trite And True.

Trouble is you gotta have yourself an alternate plan