Journal entry freewrite

Taps played on Maple leaves from sprinkles in a summer light rain. Uneasy consciousness tired of shut in thoughts. The night craves you in Sunday's vacant streets and full parking lots. Only Crickets speak. Screens keeps them on their side. Exhale stinging tongue on the sight just before citizen's work week. NO ringing, beeping, inbox jingles. Only hear the pen to paper anxieties including the shakes. The cabinets are full and there's chilled beverages in the refrigerator for MOnday's mother's embrace to start over outside the womb. Awake at "the night's serenade." Mid month imagining vacationers coming home preparing for Monday. Greatness in my feet put up on an atumun. TV off muse in blue's electric poetry filling up the page with a lack of a definite plan, random irregular desires to prophesize weekend finishing after whiskey burning my nose, clumsy speech unreal to real voices deaf from the speaker's judgemnts. If it is too loud you are too old. However, now a tranquil nirvana night's whispers.