I throw myself against the bed, praying that the two church pews hold the mattress. Digging myself into the sheets as a refuge to my sins, drunk and on a whim I tossed the last lighter out the window. I have now begun to scribble vigorously on a notepad, papers piling up as high as the coffee cups near my makeshift bed. These ides don’t work, stories thrown out faster then they are jotted down.

My knuckles hurt, or at least my brain is telling me they hurt, perhaps the pain is as fictional as the girl staring through the window at me. The circus had been in town for two weeks, playing in the corner of my room as the clock ticks past four. Four ‘o clock the circus dies, wilt away into the wall, perhaps they will come back again tomorrow.

I like the way the moon shines against the paper, it is just enough light to illuminate my paper and pencil. Scratching my hair to clean out all the bugs and wild creatures that might live in there, dandruff simulates winter snow on my sheets. I’m not interested in writing any more; this story will right itself in my dreams.

I think I might have cancer, the television said I might have cancer but its only a late night infomercial. My notepad is scrunched up too much, its not perfectly aligned like I enjoy it, I don’t like to use words any more.