unable to ignore

the ticket itches in my pocket like it's about to catch fire. I can feel the sparks heating the outside of my thigh and when I put my hand in my pocket I pull it right back out again, tips of my fingers red raw and smoking.
The calendar dates are the same bright orange as the embers of a young fire. I can think of little else. Okay, I can think of nothing else. This is a particularly uncomfortable situation considering the amount of thinking work I need to get done this week, but the shadow of home grows ever larger.

the rut, the rut...

sinking with my ticket in my pocket, I am wading unsuccessfully through the quagmire of line-lengths, letters and bills to pay, through the endless questions I raise to myself about confidence and belief and the esteemed esteem I allow myself...now and then, but increasingly rarely.

shrivelling, like a somewhat homeless gollum, a yoda of contemporary proportions, mind young and soul ancient, shrivelling, on the proverbial moss covered rock, strapped and trapped, sea growing around me, not turquoise like the Indian, but dark and inky, not like any ocean I have loved. And I am alone.

I crave solitude, and I crave an end to my loneliness. The burning ticket in my pocket could be the answer, but how can I wait that long?