The refrigerator roars into the sudden silence of our napping home.
Produce sits subservient on grocery store shelves.
I pound a dizzying rhythm on the keyboard, the poetry returned to my inner monologue; I feared it lost forever, to age or fatigue or something even more difficult to enumerate - as if one can name or number the loss of an inner poetic voice in the first place - but here it is again.
My internal voice doesn't just seize at the random flotsam of everyday stimulation, the way it has for the past couple of years; it narrates a coherent stream. Sentences often unfinished, yes, but narration (and not simple overwhelmed observation) nonetheless.
I don't know whether this blog post will be comprehensible to anyone at all, or whether every person I pass has an internal poetic monologue that I can't hear or sense. I set it out to the world (bearing in mind that grandiose concept that anyone can read this blog, though few do), anyway.