just now it's about waiting. doctors and kidneys and waiting and videos not yet late and waiting. and in lines and on hold and in telephones in wires through words whispered and caught by the other side, just barely unearthed in the thick mucousy sinus-infected breath. the words are waiting, the walls are waiting even. the solid glass of the moment is waiting, the sunlight is waiting, holding on in air-conditioning and in autumn colors. in-long-sleaves-though-sunday-was-hot sort of waiting. the almost waiting. the unsure waiting. the waiting to wait. and things happening sort of waiting. the actions are rising in waitinghood. we've found in the past that while we were waiting - waiting to get old, waiting to have fun, waiting to come down, waiting for the sun to come up - is when everything interesting started to happen. now we have found that there is hardly time to wait and we are always waiting for time to free up that we may begin again, start over, wait, so as to see something interesting (hoping the old formula will work again). and yet instead - we are faced with the simple, lonely waiting, the mundane, boring waiting-stuff you read about or hear jokes about, stuff of which deaths are made, stuff of which commercials are sat through and cobwebs are cleared from ceiling panels. waiting until there is nothing left to wait for, so the tasks you've put off are the things left to be done - which is not exactly waiting, now is it? it is merely having more things to do and doing them. it is now about this sort of waiting. this all-consuming waiting. this never-a-second-to-waste sort of waiting. waiting on the clock to move and the days to pass. waiting to be done with the things before you. waiting to have done the things you'd like to do. waiting for a time beyond time when there is nothing left to wait for but death, that you might look back - might remember fondly, all the things that passed you by while you waited to think of them in past-tense.