Some days, my words be broke. Little cogs and bits that came straight out of the box that don't click and whirl like the way they should. So I fix them. It's the Other days, these days, when my words cannot be fixed, When my words have wi th er ed. Little pods and blooms that lie dormant deep, deep within that husk of an orchid, sleep like the way they should. So I must wait. I sit by the sill, the window open just a crack, thirsting for the pitter patter of the rain.