Time is tickling that spot on my back, right between the shoulder blades where I cannot reach.
The minute hand is mocking me, ticking on without mercy.
The sun’s path across the sky is steady and relentless.
Anxiety has ants racing up my legs and arms and building nests in my guts.
The beauty and hate of the world have me paralyzed and the sheer size of my dreams is crushing me into inaction.
Nerve-ends buzzing, shoulders hunched and tense, stomach clenched, I wait for . . .