where the writers are

I pray. I see white glory clouds my awestruck eyes. I listen for an answer. I hear nothing but I feel something. I pray again. Everyone. Everything. I leave nothing and nobody out.


My eyes cloud over again. I’m blinded by visions and light. I listen again. The world ends with an amen and I wake up dead to the world. Just another boring cloudy morning full of sticky skin and cleaning rituals. The News of the World. The Internet.


My son is up already. I peel myself off sheets that were dry last night and I realize something; today feels different somehow. Silent. Peaceful. Holy. Then I know the world is waiting for me to say something. The end word. The word to end all words, all worlds. I decide not to say it just yet. Let’s give the world one more day and see what they do with it.


I read everything the world writes. Perhaps my hunger for their writing genius is their only saving grace? I’m stimulated and satisfied so I go back to bed to keep the world in my dreams. I pray and the world continues to exist on a wing and a prayer. I’m still resting.


Wake me up when they’re done, son. What a day! At least I have dry sheets again. Goodnight and amen everyone.