Oh, Bentley, Is It Really Coming

I am awake and yet the floor is moving in ripples and outside I see nothing but the top of a carport, the standing water, the fallen. Leaves and such. The breath between waking moments is becoming shorter. Between snow, longer. That early arrival in October brought with it expectations: a winter of apartment as hermitage, isolation with loneliness following, instead of the familiar loneliness preceding. I do not want to be here by choice, by lack of options. It is depressing, Bentley, to be snowed in without the snow, to be awake all these hours. Tell me, Bentley, which director do I turn to for answers. Your Kubrick, perhaps. Tell me. There must be one, out there, who will help me back to sleep. Or there must be snow on the horizon. How much salvation can I hope for in the coming weather, should I. How much pressure can I place on the heavens. I am awake and yet my legs are not ready to carry me through the day and so I will be here, watching, waiting.