There's nothing to do.
Not really.
The sun is taking care of itself.
The plants are silently busy.
Rain falls effortlessly.
There's nothing to do.
And in that realisation it becomes quieter, and then there's nowhere to go.
Not really.
In the quiet of here, in the moment of breath, and sensation.
It's enough.
There's nowhere to be.
And it's quieter still.
There's no-one to be.
Not really.
I made me up.
And bore all of the things I had to do.
Busy.
Missing.
There's no-one to be.
