There’s a graveyard across from the coffee shop.

Between them — a highway with cars that don’t stop.

Thus, I sit, a mortal with tea

and a spirit contemplating mortality.

Displayed through windows stretching ceiling to floor

are gray headstones of all those who came before.

I explored them once

collecting names.

Is that really all that remains?

These people are all strangers to me.

Me with my notebook, my dreams, and my tea.

I visit with a laptop and hopes of productivity.

Deadlines and plotlines and time far from free.

But then my chin is in my hands and words float through my mind;