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Saturday, December 27, 2003 A little piece of writing Patrick discovered in my notebook; I'd completely forgotten about it. Clichés She stares at the blank page and turns to old words for inspiration. The poetry is exhausted, mediocre, received and the page remains white. So she lets her eyes wander past the bookshelves and onto the stacks of CDs that will no longer contain themselves in the rack--after reading a few inserts, lyrics from her favorite bands, musicals, artists, she returns the sleeves to their homes. And the page remains white. What she wishes she could play she cannot write--and the cello holds no solace tonight. It sits in the corner, alone. To write would be to create reality, a reality that cannot exist. Will not. Choice. Why? It was a painful conversation, but he’d said it and she’d agreed. Or seemed to. Yet he was the first in two years of contentedness to make her wish for another. For starry nights and drippy candles and roses and clichés. ^ Top | 12:58 AM | | | 
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