Today I was dizzy without moving. Nothing else moved either. Just my eyes. They focused on two objects quickly, simulating action, meaning nothing in particular. A low pressure system lowered my expectations, standards, and pride simultaneously. The blah crept in. Creeps, will creep on.

Where is the whimsy in living? Why must the seasons dictate moods so stringently? The father walks in, takes some silk flowers off a lamp, plunks them on his head. Grins. "Spring is coming and we'll all have to wear garlands on our heads," I never even spoke to him, yet he followed up my last thought. Down treads him. Cold fish sticks and spaghetti, also cold, await.

The only sound waves emerging from his room coalesce into coughs.The brother has not slept yet. That is all. Nothing will happen until tomorrow which shall repeat today. Shower to school. No breakfast. Soon is never soon enough. Food is never food enough, especially to the wrestler.

The mother chatters about age, long time not seeing, and childhood to the Nancy of the phone.

The father hears the T.V., eats, and cleans up, the only job he shall ever complete in his lifetime.

The brother sleeps on.

The mother listens to the words, but never to the rhythm or rhyme, for she is blind and cannot see.

The father eagerly talks to himself, serving the silence well.

The brother's dreams begin to creep.

The mother waters the moonlit plants.

The father toasts a muffin with no one's help.

Later they shall all sleep and I shall watch, dizzy, as we refocus and awake next spring. n