Sisyphus, the refrigerator

is groaning uphill this morning. The coffee is hot and bitter so much the better.
I have a fever of words
I feel as if the house had landed on ridge on a hard Winter planet, level and looking out. I stare out the pressure lock at the harsh cold. I would not have made the night. Lost in the towering wealth of each moment.
I have a fever of words
A studio sky. The canvas of imagination. Some of the best art of the Western History Period was sets. We sit and stare at it, past the players who burn or blur our lines. The props rattle and shake but there is no wind.
I have a fever of words
The cold draws just like Gravity. The wrath of the void. The second Law playing out. An hour of grey indifference the silence played on a wool flute. These low clouds the factotum of despair. Not enough Sun to keep the kitten warm.