Just Undo It

Late, too late now. The time swiftly passed away since the moment the body sat, thoughtful then. Presently silent, on the verge of scribbling, looking for a theme, a topic, a field. The apparition of the mindful youth reminds of pleasurable ideas, of quixotic projects, of a delightful future now passed. Sheets of notes waiting to be expurgated from the few still useful marks, files of texts still burdening the soul, emails fulfilling entropy's destiny. It is always too late, now that doing nothing is what one needs to do.