I hear only the electrical hum, see the blankness of screens, rushing me to write.
Life is short, subordinate all else, Microsoft Word whispers. Email seduces me with promises of recognition. Ads for superfluity. News beckons with reminders of human perfidy. Netflix beckons with psychological drama and human perfidy.
Mom asks how my day was. What did I achieve? I only grunt. Swell, fine, I say on more verbose nights. When she wants me to watch Hitchcock Presents or other oldies, I have to “check things.” Her smile arrests me, beatific, wavering a tad.
I whisper contrition.
Electronic hums overwhelm regret.