Curled up, feline, by the window she slept off the night before. Across the room from her I, the writer, tried to grope for words on which to carry my thoughts. Words which sunk halfway to their destination like ships over-heavy with their bloated cargo. The coffee bubbling and burning off the stove in the kitchen, sat ignored but incessant like an irritating relative. The gurgles of the washing machine like sink holes dragged my thoughts down, vanishing in a whisp of sea spray.