9 o’clock…. a dusty hour…… black soil moist…. has not yet set in….. and this hour of night feels more like asphalt than dew…..

a drenched and slowly portion waits….. linear passage on deck for the passing…. but this 9 o’clock hour stands unforgiven arms folded… steady solid….. sharp heels digging in…….. and some blocks away a boisterous clump of traffic roars…… screaming of unborn adventures….. wheels whisk over pavement in show-offish splashes……. existing still in the baby hours of time not yet passed……. 

9 0’clock….. should have been an upright solid hour….. full of promises and hopeful minutes…. a bag whose weave waited ready to be stretched thin….. an hour reticent at the mind’s helm…….. like dew dripping from a branch……

and my writing is beginning to suck now.  because i’m forcing alliteration…. forcing from the wellspring that has at this hour run dry….. become dusty…… at 9 o’clock……. because i’m tired….. but i want to write…… i want to avoid other things…. afford myself the luxury of expression…….. but i’m tired now…… and my writing’s beginning to suck…… so i’m stopping………

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