I am disappointed to the heart. My storm comes not. The wind, it is a sad puffing. The rain but water flicked off still-wet hands. The sky is dark, but white clouds flee across it gaily, as youths to a secret party. I am tired, and my eyes fail me. I will sleep through till morning, seeing nothing more than I have. A beautiful sunset, yellow clouds chased by black, yellow sky turning sallow, then red, then flaming magenta, then indigo, then grey, then black. The colors chased each other across the sky, filling it in turn, crowding into each other as they approached the horizon, chased by impotent smothering black clouds. All was done in the space of ten or fifteen minutes, from day to night, the fastest sunset ever. And now I wait. Labor of preparation? Soul searching? Acceptance? All completed. And then this waiting, this impotence, can't leave for the storm could always break suddenly, can't waste resources, even though the storm seems to have been meant for others not us. I wanted to stand outside and be soaked to the core. I wanted to fight against the wind. I wanted to feel alive. I am still here, dying slowly and impatiently. I would have to stand outside for an hour to get wet enough to need a towel. I would have to balance on a fencepost for the wind to be given the chance to blow me over. I feel so dark and alone. We all sit in our holes, waiting for the nothing that comes. It will be terrible, and I will miss it. I can't write the poem I wanted; this muse turned its back to me.