No Inspiration

The ocean feels hot today.
Perhaps compared to my cold blood it is.
I'm standing at the entrance of the sea,
the undertow is tempting the sand around my feet.
The sun is setting
and the ocean feels hot today.

Breaking away from the current, I walk to through the dry sand
the heat reminds me of a blow-dryer
to the sandy deck where my apartment lies.
Instead of using my key to unlock my door,
I break in with my credit card.
I still feel this place is not my home.
I'm just a permanent visitor here.

Roommate is gone, don't know where.
It seems irrelevant.
The kitchen is clean and empty.
This house is spotless. Perfect.
Empty.

Bedroom is Sanctuary.
Dying in this room is half the way I live.
The familiar smells, not exactly odorous, but humanly,
the bed to rest and never rest on,
Only the pale blue walls and the windows communicate with the outside world.
It's the safest place to die
when there's no inspiration left.