The Commute (pt1)

Driving to work it's dark. Lighter though than the coming winter mornings, but still dark. Mind now blank - not an empty canvas -  feeling sickly full, but of nothingness. Hands busy memorizing the edges, such sharp edges, of a forming wound. Healing and hidden by a thick head of hair, but found by anxiety.  It's a problem. One of a crowd, crowding closer, replacing space with shame, with density.