No time

I have been writing for two straight days, its 3 a.m. and I can’t really feel my fingers anymore; but I can hear the sound of my thoughts becoming words in my grandfather’s 1964 Smith Corona. The noise of this old thing doesn’t allow me to hear very well the shy echo of my neighbors protest songs that sneaks into my so called home because I forgot to close the bathroom window. My cat grew tired of begging for food and decided it was best to fall asleep because he knows that when I start writing, it’s all hopeless. Its just that, see, I work for The Daily Mirror and I can let myself get behind on all the work I have to deliver. I have a great job, and an amazing property; but that phrase that just haunts you in a big city is true; you cant have all three (home, job and relationship)

My computer bailed on me yesterday, so I’m stuck here in my poorly lightened basement, water leaks and rats are keeping me company. I wish I wasn’t so neurotic, I can’t concentrate with the slightest attempt of a noise, like water leaks and rats for instance. By now I should have the worlds biggest headache, considering; I don’t really know if it’s the excess of caffeine, the lack of sleep or my current state of mind but I tell you I don’t feel a thing. I haven’t really felt anything for several hours, I should probably lie down… I should but I can’t.

Someone’s at the door right about now, even though I’m down here I can hear the steps, soft steps; no heals, must be a man. The so-far stranger rings the bell and since I’m not willing to stand up I just wait, listening. Sarah, open up! Mark, my assistant says with his sparkly young voice; and just when he gets my interest saying he brought food, just when I’m ready to leave my uncomfortable seat he opens the door. God, what is that smell, he mutters. Judge me not, I scream from the basement, try having my work and keeping a house clean at the same time. Where are you? He asks over and over. I try to tell him I’m downstairs I try to tell him to come here but he doesn’t seem to listen and I hear him open he heavy door of my studio, and then, a cry of horror. I hear he makes a phone call; I should probably go up now. However, I don’t.

No time for nonsense right now. I hear a bunch of people talking loudly in my living room. I swear I can hear he mud in all of their shoes rubbing into my recently cleaned carpets… they are talking, and I am listening but I cant really hear a word they say, until someone says that there’s light in the basement and they decide to come down. A police officer stares at me, calls his partner moving his arm and they both stand before me in shock. It seems you have never seen a person work, I say, well, its probably the bags under my eyes or the fa… a man approaches me and takes out the paper I’m using right now, I pull it back and he runs away.

All I can hear from my basement now is: there’s a typing machine, and its working all by itself! –Do you think she might… no –But, but, the light was on, and I swear I could feel… Well, but I’m not really worried, I couldn’t really be dead; after all I have no time for such a thing!