1:01 a.m

In the boardroom painting our own dreams, constantly skipping bedtime stories claiming we’ll write our own instead of waiting on time to decide who we are. Carrying no weapon just a pen and paper to forcefully take the plate they owe us, we’re walking head first to the game just to pause it in order to voice ourselves. We’re the minority they stumped on; we’re the minority they claimed to be dead in the box until we proved we could think outside it. Not entering the game to rub shoulders, we’re adding more graphics, can’t tell them to watch the space they haven’t seen us turn into stars.

“You’ve lost so much weight, look at you” “You do know coffee isn’t good for you?” “Mom I’m fine, call my brother! The website is good, just a few more steps and I’ll be selling”

We got them asking about us as if they ever emerged into our thoughts, got them spreading rumours about one of the worst writers to live and living each day witnessing friends become foes.

“I need more equipment, don’t worry about food I’ll live” “That much?” “Camera’s are expensive but it’s worth it”

Just alone with my thoughts, I sometimes think about you, at times it’s so vivid it seems as you’re with me. Does that make me lonely because my thoughts bring you to life? I don’t know, I had too much coffee maybe.