a writer's lair

I feel air under my feet

And I know I'm not walking on it.

No, I'm not falling or flying either.

Someone hung me out here.

The clouds rub by wiping me clean

as would an army of sponges.

Some might call this bliss.

Alone. Not a sound. Not a sight.

The distinct sense of nothingness

is pervasive. And here I remain

hung in the air.

Some might call this hell.

Alone. So alone. The agony

of absolutely nothing eats

away at the inner soul of the

man. And here I remain

hung in the air.

I feel air under my feet.

Air is under my feet.