And I'm already in bed.

In love with the way these graphite lines are left behind on my page. Trailing behind the point of my plain yellow pencil.

Not in the mood for even my antique hues of ink writing only to hear the lull of that scratch, a certain timbre and cadence I find so soothing wanting only to not run out of lovely words so I don't have to listen to the silence at the still of my quill.

Staring greedily as I form another luscious loop on a �g' or �y', realizing that the capital �i' is my most favoritely formed capital letter.

Not being angry that I wasn't called, but knowing that deep down that the anger and hurt are there.

Writing about one thing so I won't write about another, or perhaps writing in a code that not even I have the enigma machine for.

Imagining a Rosetta stone for my thoughts so that even I will be translator.

Not wanting to stop, not wanting to stop watching the lines trace the path of my point.

Not wanting to break the code of my musings, not wanting to acknowledge the sagging of my eyelids, but realizing I soon must.

Stopping.

Ending this sublime distraction.