This Moment - May 11 10:43 P.M.

The sky is a blurred eye. The dense clouds of mottled white and gray have imprisioned the sun. I am waiting for a ransom note. I will pay the demands without reservations. Earlier this morning a bird called the day into being with its singsong. No call to begin anew now, only silence, save for the constant rhythmic tone of compressed computer keys. A kind of darkness permeates as if it has woven its fingers through hair at the base of the neck and is applying subtle pressure, signaling a threat to pull.