The story is an old one; my story is a new one. I can't see her face, but I can picture her voice. She tells me… things. I can't place her and I cannot touch her from where I sit. I would stand, but I am firmly entrenched in my current situation. Or so I tell myself.

In order to escape the clutches of a “heavenly” body's gravitational field, a projectile must reach the aptly named escape velocity. So it is with procrastination. My eternal  existence is determining the proper speed I must achieve in order to break the grip of the daily grind. What good is reaching for the stars if you can't free yourself an inch off the ground?

I hear a whisper, but I don't feel a taste. I look for her in anger, but all I feel is disgrace. She is not where I hoped she'd be. I'm not the man she wanted me to be.