onward,

it is seven thirty

past the break of dawn

sweeping, fli cker ing

flirtatiously

f a i n t ly

beckoning my restless body

an inkling of dreams

but i cannot, and i succumb to the grip of my pencil

and the social network of which i whore shamelessly

only thinking of a singer's resonating tune that will greet me soon

and the sweet interference of morality