I miss time.
I watch my pen scratch my paper and magically produce ink.
I know it’s not magic.
I could figure out how it works.
But I don’t want to.
Nothing’s magic anymore.
I watch grass twitch in the wind.
One ant crawls across my paper and I let it.
A piece of grass is stuck between a bolt and the bench that I am sitting on.
It spastically moves in every which direction.
A squirrel in the distance waves its tail as it climbs down its tree.
Stopping only to look at my when I unconsciously click my pen.
They say I waste my precious time.
One minute closer to death.
I miss time.