Zebra Shaped Handi-Wipes

Waiting for the message to be passed to me. A handshake from God with a tightly folded piece of paper in the palm. A small manila envelope left on the doorstep of my cerebral cortex. A whispered sequence while attention is fixed on the 3rd Act of the play. The method os open and I am aware and waiting for the reception.

Until then, I flounder without moving. Fingers, on the keyboard, fingers off the keyboard. Pace around the room. Have some more coffee, maybe a tea would be better. Music on, music off. Maybe a different station.

Somewhere in there is the answer. Somewhere out there is the key. Who could resist? Where could you look? What could possibly be waiting for? There it is, prepared for the ending. I have the pedestal ready. Waiting for the turn, for the peripeteia, for the reversal.

Then let it all run out. Once we have it right, nothing stops it. It runs ahead and all we can do is to hold tight.

Until then we wait. Nothing can move ahead, everything is frozen. I sit in the quiet and wait for the message.

More later,