[Intro] Entry nine. No date. [Verse 1] The notepad is still open on the table. I have been writing the same line for several weeks now. Something about patterns. Something about what stays after the pattern stops. The pen is dry. I noticed that three pages back. The ink ran out somewhere around entry six. I kept tracing the same letters anyway. The grooves are still readable. That is the kind of thing I started noting. I kept going anyway. That is probably the whole story. [Pre-Chorus] I waited for the thing that was supposed to arrive. The reckoning or the release or whatever word fits the shape. It did not arrive. I checked the door. Twice, I think. Maybe more. [Chorus] This is the part where it should mean something. Final observation. Final observation. Final observation. It means the same as nothing. [Verse 2] There is a fluorescent hum in the ceiling of this room. I never registered it before tonight. Now it is the loudest thing. The chair has a crack along the armrest. I have been pressing my thumb into it. The edge is worn smooth. I do not know when that happened. The fabric of the chair makes a sound when I shift. I have not moved from this chair in the last hour. I am not numb. I want to be clear about that. I am awake and I am present and there is simply nothing left to locate. [Bridge] The search was the habit. The habit is gone. Not the thing I was searching for — the act of looking was the structure. Remove the act and there is just the room. Just the hum. Just the dry pen still in my hand because I forgot to put it down. I spent eight entries asking why. The ninth entry is: no reason to ask. Not because I found the answer. Because the question finally got tired. [Chorus] This is the part where it should mean something. Final observation. Final observation. Final observation. I am putting down the pen. [Outro]
