It is Hard

At the end of the day it is hard to drag the pen along the page.
I stole a donated book from work today. I liked the author, I
hadn't read the book, and I wanted it.
Let's just say it was donated to me.
I checked out a dozen CDs so I could take them home, listen
to 3, and stare at the other nine.
I checked out a short story because it was short. Ha! Gotcha.
I've got several weeks to put off reading it.
I walked to the bus stop while listening to a friend's rap music. It totally
changes the way I walk. I feel slightly tougher. But it didn't stop
me from nodding to an older gentleman leaning on a cane.
When I got on my bus
I took out the short story and read 2 pages before putting it
back in my purse.
In the crack of the window, there was a dead moth lying. . . dead.
Of course.
I stopped what I was doing, which was nothing, and stared. I stared
for awhile, until I couldn't bare the simple gruesome image any longer. I did sneak a glance a few more times.
I had to write it down. It was paper worthy. I have to say though, the dead moth made me tired
because it looked so tired and . . . dead. Of course. And because it was the end of the day.
And it is hard to drag this pen along the page.