What to do when you're restless.

An old soul song comes on the alarm clock radio. -- Conor Oberst.

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She clutches onto Byron, onto Emerson and onto Keats. Time won't let her go and she's not sure if she wants to take leave. Maybe there is a comfort in constriction. Or maybe it's the boys outside her window, toying with her dreams. The coffee beside her spreads it's nostalgic aroma about the paper room. The pencils atop her desk come to life with spasmodic movements akin to the old men she sees in cafés, tapping aged fingers against mugs of ale. The pencils twist and turn, but make a sound, they do not dare. Without a grip to steady them, they are but lost toddlers, not yet skilled in balance. She sighs and she lies there, trying to bring her pulse down low enough to hear her thoughts.

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The constellations made evident by pre-historic humans race about in grandeur, traversing the abundant sky. His eyes glaze over, not having felt the luxury of a blink for quite some time now. In between tall Poppies and scattered Wild Lupine, he ponders over where the rest of the stars fit into the equation. All the remainders, the leftovers of the nighttime escapade. Are they spectators? Or are they simply biding their time, waiting for their neighbours to realign themselves in a more favourable position for a new constellation to arise which would – with planned consequentiality - include themselves? Or do they not even have the mind for such things, with threats the likeness of comets and meteors on the rise? Not to mention their old foes, the Black Holes. Horrible betrayers, deceivers of the worst kind, they are. He chuckles at the thought. The places his mind wonders to, when given the time of day.

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The television blares, telling apathetic humans of their demise through patriotic propaganda and detailing of fictitious epidemics. He doesn't mind. The words blur to incoherence now anyway. He couldn't make out the sense in them if he had any care to. He wants to run. No. He wants to fly away from this world and over to where civilization has not yet reached and where a man's happiness isn't dictated by the sum of numbers at the end of the day in his bank account. But until he can perfect his one-man flight plan, he'll sit there, watching the sun masking the day – media brainwashing the rest.

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She walks across destinies and highways, dreams and one-ways

He beckons and calls, but she could only respond in despondence.

Why mask the face of greed when it lies so firmly within

Why ask a man to drown when he's already mastered how to swim.

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The moonlight leaks through the window, lightly tapping the dormant soul lying beneath the ledge. The eyes flicker to life, irises seeing only a slight orb of light racing across the moulding ceiling of childhood. Near-conscious of its surroundings, the languid soul sits upon the ledge and stares up at the moon. It's brain remembers a far off tale of condolence. A voice telling of how things often are more helpful when disconnected from the item in question. Free from bias, the voice affirms in a detached tone worthy of its cause. Does that make the moon the middleman, the sole constant? The soul inquires. That would make for an awfully lonely disposition. But how does it stay afloat with all the world's weight in troubles upon it's back? The voice answers in all sincerity. It doesn't. It gets carried by the stars.

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How to explain, to express something that was never really there? How to adopt a sense of conviction when all you get is uncovered fraud? Where does creativity spark when people stop believing? Oh they left it up to us, again, didn't they? I guess we'll have to be the salvation. The arm around the emotion that tells us that negativity is passivity and that passivity is better than to be affirmative and fail big time. Because being optimistic is akin to being disappointed at the slow pace of man, now, isn't it? But how would you know that, if you never saw for yourself? The slow pace of man is for a reason. We have the answer but no one is willing to share. Or rather its all an obscure game of chinese whispers, fibs fusing with truths until the end result is complex and not one single individual is capable of discerning the boundaries of reason and beautification.

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Her lips a riotous red; his a chapped pink. Her hair the colour of rich mahogany; his barely passable for a rugged black. Her eyes the colour of the earth, full of its mysteries and hidden crevices; his the shade of a desiccated blade of grass. Yet, where differences divide, this feeling bridges. This... love, is it? This warm bind that laces the two conflicting hands together and that dismembers both hearts, assembling them back to beat as one.

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So she paces. Her future lays uncertain, in the hands of aristocrats playing with lives as if a simple card game. One ace of hearts in trade for a king of spades. She was never good at deceit, anyway. Always an open book, her face relying reflections of varying emotions, yet never quite enough to express her despair. It doesn't matter now. She tugs her worn cardigan across her frozen frame with a subtle self-reassurance. Memories of childhood and heartfelt songs of the ages replay about in her brain as she taps her feet in agitation. A defense mechanism, something she wasn't surely able. Anything is better than to face what may surface within time.