Chapter One, The Darkness/All There Is Is Darkness
It is too early, though, for me to write about that mug of coffee. I had planned to write a poem about coffee for mother, since Mother's Day is coming up soon, but it is too early. There must be some dark form of solid nothing that I can write about, in place of that boring mug resting beside me on the windowsill, saucer beneath its plump bottom, staring at me seemingly . . . maybe it is taunting me. I really don't know. It is all fantasy. Perchance. It may not be fantasy. All I really know is that I must save this treacherous, awful thing of reality behind me. I must go . . . to another place. I put my hand up. The sun is blinding me. It is too bright. It is too early for a coffee piece today. It is too early . . . I must write about the darkness.