Wednesday Entry

They lean on doorframes of tomorrow, listening for footsteps that never come, counting the weather, blaming the clock, hands folded like unused maps.

Others cut windows into the wall of the day. They build ladders from doubt and splinters, bleed a little, laugh a little, and climb anyway.

One group asks the sky for permission. The other learns the language of rain, plants their feet in mud and says,

*Now.*