beneath the blue suburban skies I sit...

I'm sitting here staring at the cursor blinking against blank white. I have no idea what to write. It's just that sometimes I need to. I sit here and stare and need and the Beatles play.

I don't have words for loneliness. I have words for skies and rain and anger. But I have never been able to find words for this emptiness.

Here I stand, head in hand, turn my face to the wall...

I know things. I know histories and stories and smiles and tears. I know scars and laughter. I know infinite. But I do not know a word for this. Maybe some other language has a word. A language better suited to melancholy than English. English pretends that all is well. We have no word for this. I think there is a word in French, but now even that escapes me.

escape?

You've got that something, I think you'll understand.

There is a whole lot of saying nothing. If I had a word I could pin it down and maybe I could breathe.