The lilting white noise of the fan was not enough.
The comforting and assured tapping of the keys was not enough.
The incessant whine of electronic devices was not enough.
The words, snaking through her skull and tapping on her forehead, were not enough.
Because the words were left unwritten, as they so often are.
But the laundry was done.
The bed was made, sheets tucked in and quilt straightened to ninety degree angles.
The sink glistened and boasted its emptiness.
The dog had been washed, brushed, and fed, and now sat panting happily by the door.
The urgent emails had been sent, with a friendly but emotionally distant tone.
Hair had been coiffed to perfection.
Coffee had been made, and served, during an afternoon chat.
But the notebook sat empty, as the keys clicked away.
Another email, another form, another assignment.
Writing could wait. It had been waiting this long.