This is what it's all about.
Wax pooling at the bottom.
Beard turning grey.
Pencils without erasers.
Fingertips dancing an absent rhythm.
Fragile, sunwashed paper.
The smell of libraries and cedar chests.
The organization of secret secrets
and insincere pinky swears.
Of summer flings.
Young babes playfully flung in the air.
The drop of sanity in quiet.
Enough is when the tip is dry
the well is dull
and the block is still.
Empty.
Cold.
Not a single call today.