There Isn't

   It's the middle of the night. I'm in my bed. There is no sound other than the low hum of the refrigerator.

   There is a sense of neglect to my apartment. My sheets and blanket need to be washed. Magazines and books and stacks of CDs need to be reorganized. I should vacuum and mop too. The place feels like an old car with rust on the body and an empty pop can that has been on the floorboard too long. I feel a little dirty by extension. And I also have the somewhat contradictory feeling of having just woken up here.

   I've been reading. The book is Stop-Time by Frank Conroy. The line that keeps coming back to me is this: "...as if there were all the time in the world."

   I keep putting the book down and looking around at my apartment. And I feel those words crawling all over everything.