It takes a moment to find Calliope. Urgency predicates motion.
I stopped bringing the newspapers from the porch into the hallway. They remain unread regardless. In fact, I migrated the newspapers from the hallway back onto the porch. Manifest Destiny. I scatter them in the evening when I return from work, and I hear them stacked again in the mornings as I lay staring at the ceiling.
I recall mornings watching the stars die; of course, then I threw the newspapers back towards their Deliverer. Change doesn't change much.
Sometimes I think about reading as I lay my wearied bones to rest on salvation army couches. Beds abound up the stairs. Big, soft, expensive beds. I'm no longer comfortable with comfort. One day I'll trite someone to death.
The thought of reading does occur. I can't remember the last thing I read consciously. Words fill pages that scroll in accordance with the movements of my fingers. I absorb; I accept; I link. Changes little changing.
Closing the eyes is the hardest part. They don't like that. They resist. Then they flitter about, searching for occupation. Words are like food to them.
I'll feed my porch instead.