It was over quickly. A little too quickly. Like lightning without thunder, a cake without icing, a novel with the last page torn out: a little too… unsatisfying. How arduous the work was as first, and how dedicated you were to the requisite time to prepare. How you dropped to your knees as if in prayer, hands clasped and breath held, ready to take on the world. Yet, somehow, you failed. The question remains: who is at fault? But this equation has no solution; the variable remains unknown. Now, sitting outside, alone in your chair, watching the smoke curl upward, you wonder again how you wound up here. And with a cleansing cough, a graphic expulsion of air—and every feeling you have ever felt, forcing its way out—you grip yourself steady and reach for your glass, thinking: Yes… somehow, this too shall pass.

waning moon…
another night without
the muse

Elizabeth Alford