When your pen stops flowing - pick up the brush.
The back up reserves kicking in. Words smoothed out in ink.
If she were ever a ticking time bomb, now was the time. Each step under her ground was delicate and the cracks on the sidewalk reflected up into her mind. “It’s all a cycle,” she reminded herself, “it won’t last. Nothing really does.” It was this perspective that slowed the flame on her fuse, but as the heat inched closer she wondered how long a concept could halt reality…